


The Masks They Wear

by WorseOmens



Series: Good Omens Outsider POVs [14]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: AZ Fell & Co, Conspiracy Theories, Crowley’s shenanigans, Cryptid Aziraphale, Enforcer Crowley, F/F, Family Feels, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Irish Folklore, M/M, Magical Shenanigans, Mentions of homophobia, Misconceptions, Mob boss Aziraphale, Myth & Folklore, OC Relationships - Freeform, Soft Aziraphale, The Bentley - Freeform, cryptid Crowley, established relationships - Freeform, minor homophobia, outsider pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:35:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22514107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WorseOmens/pseuds/WorseOmens
Summary: Wilson isn’t as willing to give up on finding answers as Carlton was, and he stumbles right into the heart of the issue... you know, eventually.(Part four of the Carlton & Wilson stories)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley, Ineffable Husbands - Relationship, Laura/Clara
Series: Good Omens Outsider POVs [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1545919
Comments: 351
Kudos: 1385





	1. Investigations Gone Awry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, we’re back for part four because you bastards won’t let me sleep 
> 
> ... I love you for it though.

Wilson never settled to the idea of Mr Fell and his husband hanging around. Clara still didn't believe they were criminals, but Carlton did - and she _still_ didn't seem bothered by it. Her principles always got weaker where her wife was concerned. Whenever Wilson tried to bring it up, she always brushed him off again.

"You were the one who told me that it wouldn't be so bad to have them around in the first place," she said, flicking through her files as she strode through the corridors. "What happened to all that, hm?"

He scoffed, dodging coworkers as he tried to keep pace with her through the office. "I meant, you didn't have to keep trying to arrest them if Clara was getting tangled up in it," he said in exasperation. "I thought you were going to hand the case to someone else, not close it altogether!"

"What does it matter? Organised crime rates are lower than ever," she said, stepping into her office. "If he's keeping a choke-hold on every other gang in the city, then I count him as the lesser of two evils. He's practically doing our job for us."

"Since when have you ever cared about the numbers? Who knows what he's doing now he knows no one's watching," he insisted, pacing around her small office while she settled behind the desk, calmly unfolding her paperwork. "Not to mention what people are saying about you."

She looked up sharply. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He stalked closer, leaning down on the table. "It means, people notice that you did a complete 180 almost overnight. One day you're foaming at the mouth ready to take this guy down, and the next he's your best friend," he said. "This looks really bad for you, Laura."

"We're at work. It's Carlton," she said tightly. The cords in her face twitched as she ground her teeth slightly. "As far as you know, is anyone making formal allegations of corruption?"

"No, but - "

"Then but nothing. Maybe Mr Fell does have some police officers in his pocket, but I'm not one of them," she said harshly, clicking her pen and looking down at her paperwork. "We have an understanding. That's the end of it."

He sighed, standing up again. "Carlton, I - I wasn't accusing you, I was just saying..." he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I didn't think you were actually working for him, but other people do. That, or they think you're being blackmailed."

"And what do you want me to do about it? Hm?" she said, refusing to look up at him. She kept scanning the papers under her nose as if he was just a voice over the phone. "I'm not about to call a staff meeting just to address some rumours. I have the right to remain silent, don't I?"

He scowled. "Yeah. Fine," he said, met only with a hum as he stormed back out of the office. Laura was one of his closest friends, but she was also one of the most stubborn people he knew. It made her a good fit for law enforcement, but not so much when it came to negotiating a compromise. Well, not unless you were Clara. 

He went about the rest of his day only half-thinking of his actual job. The Soho Mob refused to leave his mind. He'd be well within his rights to raise concerns to his superiors and have an official investigation reopened, but where would that leave Carlton? He'd risk ruining her career. In fact, since they were in no real doubt about Mr Fell's criminal activity, it was certain to destroy everything she'd worked for in her job so far. He couldn't do that to her, not now that her and Clara had even started the prolonged process of adopting a baby. He only needed to make sure they were safe. If he wanted answers, he couldn't look for them as Detective Sergeant Wilson. He'd have to find them as Laura's friend, James.

"Angel, another gift basket," Crowley called through to the back room, sauntering in with a wicker basket hanging from his fingers. He set it on the reading desk. "It's a good one this time. There's even some wine in here."

Aziraphale took off his reading glasses, tucking them into his breast pocket. "Oh, they do spoil us, don't they?" he said. "It's almost enough to make me feel guilty..."

"Almost?" Crowley said, quirking a brow as he took out the wine bottle. The Murphy siblings hadn't stopped sending them offerings since they'd moved away from London. Now and then, they even showed their faces in person, if only to reassure themselves that they were still on good terms. Crowley suspected that the only reason that they hadn't left the country is that they expected to be called upon to complete some sort of task on Aziraphale’s behalf. 

"Well, we did lie to them, dear. Perhaps we should send them a gift in return," he said, carefully lifting out the parcel of strawberries from the basket. He flicked open his address book, running his fingers down the page and putting a star beside the Murphys' address to remind himself. "Need I remind you, we aren't fairies."

"We aren't?" he joked. Aziraphale pouted at him. "Oh, come on. We've got wings, and magic. What's the difference?"

He rolled his eyes, sampling a few strawberries before replacing them in the basket and taking it into the kitchen. "Oh, I can see this is very amusing to you," he said chidingly.

"I think it's hilarious," he agreed, trailing him. He wrapped his arms around his waist from behind, resting his head on his shoulder as Aziraphale filled the kettle. "I've even been reading up on Irish myths, just for fun."

"Oh Good Lord."

"Have you ever heard of the Dullahan, angel?" he asked, tilting his head to watch his expression crease in confusion. "It's an omen of death. It’s very famous."

He soured. "Charming," he said, clicking the kettle on to boil. "What does this have to do with your little schemes, then?"

"Let me tell you. The Dullahan's this big headless chap who’s always on the lookout for some poor sod to carry off into the afterlife," he said. "But let me tell you the best part: he's got this big black coach, pulled by four black horses. They call it the Cóiste Bodhar. What does that sound like to you?"

He sighed in exasperation. "Are you referring to your Bentley, by any chance?"

"Yup," he grinned. 

"You aren't seriously going to try and convince them that you're the headless horseman, are you?" he said, planting his hands on his hips and pressing his lips into a thin line as he stamped out the urge to giggle at the thought.

"Oh, yes I am. I've already got a custom number plate just for this," he said smugly. He took a step closer, until he was barely an inch from his face. "Go on, angel. Give us a smile. I know you want to."

The edge of his lips twitched. "Rubbish. I'm not about to indulge your antics," he said, crossing his arms. 

"You'd get bored without my _antics_ ," he said, resting his hands on his hips and leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. He was still smiling mischievously. "Is that a smile I see...?"

Aziraphale quickly forced his mouth to relax, having hardly noticed the way it began to curl upwards of its own accord. "No," he said quickly, looking away. "I still don't approve."

"Still funny though," he said, giving him a sharp tug so he fell against his chest with a gasp. "Right angel?"

After a moment's struggle, he finally gave in, and gave him an affectionately exasperated smile. "Oh, very well then. You win, fiend," he said, rolling his eyes fondly as Crowley pressed feather-light kisses over his face. "It is _mildly_ amusing, I suppose."

"There we go," he said triumphantly, finally pressing a kiss against his lips. 

In the next room, the bell jingled. They broke apart, each glaring in the direction of the noise for different reasons. Crowley felt the angel pull from his grip, and knew there was no point in trying to stop him leaping to the defence of his books. He knew Crowley wasn't going anywhere. As he left, Crowley huffed, wandering into the back room to find a place to lie down. He spotted the desk, speckled in sunlight from a nearby window, and hummed appreciatively. That would do nicely...

Wilson wasn't surprised to see Mr Fell appear almost immediately. When he’d first made a habit of visiting, he thought it was just first-class customer service. Then, he'd started to think he was just a very mistrustful bookkeeper. Finally, he'd concluded that Fell just didn't want any old man-off-the-street stumbling across anything my illegal or incriminating in the shop. He gave the old man a strained smile. 

"Hey, Mr Fell," he said, his hands sat in the pockets of his leather jacket. "Been a while..."

"Hasn't it just, Mr Wilson," he replied, seemingly happy to see him. The last time they'd met, he and his husband had all but held a knife to his throat and told him to let them take Clara back home. As far as Mr Fell seemed concerned, all was forgotten. "How are you, my dear boy? You look tired again."

"I'm a detective. We're always tired," he said, shrugging. "Do you mind if I take five in the back room? I just... Uh... there's workmen in my flat. I wouldn't get any peace in there."

Aziraphale's face softened with pity. "Not at all, dear boy. I'll find you some blankets, you just go right through," he said. Wilson nodded stiffly, bitterly wishing he didn't remind him so vividly of his late grandfather. 

Wilson stepped into the back, settling on the old sofa. He sat back, but couldn't relax. He'd knowingly entered the lion's den, and this time, they knew he was suspicious of them. One false move could spell disaster. If this went wrong, and Wilson's name got added to their hit list, who would know what really happened? Would Carlton guess that Mr Fell must have sicced his husband on him? Would Clara finally believe her? He shivered. He was walking a fine line now, and he was walking it alone. For everyone else's sake, he guessed that was probably for the best. All he needed to know is what the two of them wanted with Carlton, because it couldn't just be nothing. Men like them always needed a payoff. 

Aziraphale came back with an armful of soft tartan blankets, stroking his hand across the snake coiled on his desk as he passed. Wilson blinked. He hadn't noticed the snake when he came in; it was perfectly still, its yellow eyes wide and vacant. "Is it okay?" he asked, nodding toward the animal as he took the blankets.

"Hm? Oh, that lazybones. Yes, he's just sleeping," he said. "It can be hard to tell, since serpents don't have eyelids. Honestly, I only left him alone for a moment..."

Wilson hummed, unsettled, hoping he'd offer to move the snake out of the room. He didn't. He could hardly blame him, he supposed; it was a large, heavy animal, and he'd struggle to get all his coils in his arms at once without dropping any. Not to mention, Wilson hadn't forgotten almost getting bitten by it. He couldn't imagine the snake would be too happy to be woken up for no good reason. 

"I'll be closing the shop in an hour or two, but don't you worry, you can stay here as long as you like," Aziraphale said, clasping his hands together over his belly. "I'll be just in the next room should you need me, and you have my scaled friend over there to keep you company, too."

He gave the snake a side-glance. "I'm more worried he'll think you've just left him an afternoon snack," he said, gesturing to himself, half-seriously and half-joking. 

He chuckled. "Don't worry, he won't want to eat the blankets," he replied cheerily, and turned to step back into the shop front. Wilson frowned at his back. 

He couldn't tell if Mr Fell was honestly oblivious, or if he just got a kick out of freaking him out. With a suspicious glance at the door, he slipped off his shoes and lay down, keeping his eyes open. He did feel drowsy, but that wasn't why he was here. Lying on the sofa, the ticking of the clock kept the time in a neat rhythm. Aziraphale wandered back and forth past the door a few times before the sound of his footfalls faded further toward the front of the shop. Once he was sure he wasn't coming back, Wilson sat up, setting his feet back on the floorboards.

Glad that he'd taken off his boots, he sneaked across the room, looking over the stacks of books on the tables in search of clues. There were a few receipts dotted around, usually from the Ritz or some other high-end eatery. Most of them came in at hundreds of pounds a piece. Moving on, with only a small pang of envy, he began to slowly slide open some drawers with a nervous glance toward the door. All was silent. Looking back down, he found a set of antique photos bound together in string. He daren't touch them for fear they'd disintegrate in his hands, but he leaned down to get a better look. It was the AZ Fell & Co shopfront, with a pale-haired man stood proudly in front of it, his chest puffed out and an ecstatic grin plastered across his face. The camera's reflection stood in the dark glass of the shop window, with a tall, thin figure in a top-hat beside the photographer. 

"Creepy," he muttered to himself, sliding the drawer shut again before the implications had time to set in. It looked strikingly like Mr Fell stood in front of that shop... but then again, it was probably a family business, and the photo was grainy anyway. He probably just bore a passing resemblance with some great-grandfather of his. Cynically, he wondered if the very first Mr Fell had been a crime boss, too. A man as powerful as him was likely to have a very good criminal pedigree.

He turned to the desk, swallowing thickly. A lidless eye stared back at him. He approached the serpent, tentatively waving a hand in front of its face as he got closer. The snake didn't respond. Assuming it was still asleep, Wilson stood on the balls of his feet, trying to examine the desk beneath its coils. He spotted an open book underneath it; half an address poked just into view, with a prominent red star just beside it. He licked his lips nervously. He grasped the corner of the address book, holding his breath, and began to tug it from beneath the snake's coils. The book rasped against the desk as it moved. He cringed, waiting for a set of fangs to bury themselves in his hand at any moment...

Crowley didn't even notice. He was genuinely asleep, and he'd grown accustomed to Aziraphale sliding books out from under him all the time, since there was hardly a surface in the building he could nap on without there being a book beneath him. Wilson pulled on the book until the address was in view.

"Number five, Pear Street," he mumbled, tilting his head to read it. There was a postcode written beneath it, which he quickly committed to memory, too. It wasn't a London property as far as he knew, but it was close by the city, if memory served... 

Footsteps shocked him back to reality. He took a sharp breath, quickly turning back to the sofa, unable to run for fear of making a racket. His heart pounded harder every moment. The footfalls were closing in, and he barely made it back beneath the blankets before he heard the door creak open ever-so-slowly. He heard Mr Fell sigh in relief.

The door clicked shut behind him, and he made his way quietly through the room. He paused for a moment by the sofa, and Wilson exerted a Herculean effort to keep his face neutral as he felt the mob boss looming over him. His heart lurched as he felt his manicured hand grip the edge of the blanket. He must have heard him moving around! He expected him to rip it back and call for Crowley to throw him to the street, or worse, to make a snap movement and hold the blanket down over his mouth and nose until he stopped struggling, stopped breathing, stopped _snooping._

He did none of this. Fell simply pulled the blanket further up, tucking it neatly around his shoulders with a touch so soft that Wilson was sure, if he had been asleep, it wouldn't have disturbed him. After another moment's silence, Mr Fell walked away again. 

"Crowley, dear," he said quietly on the other side of the room. "Wake up, my love."

Wilson was still reeling from the tender, almost paternal, gesture with the blanket. His ears hardly caught his words. Crowley...? He hadn't heard him come in. He couldn't have been in the room all along, could he? Dread pulsed through his veins at the thought of the enforcer, dispassionately watching him from a secluded corner of the room, plotting all the nasty things he'd do to him once his husband gave the order. He stayed still. If Fell had just told him to wake up, then he can't have been watching. Wilson hoped he may yet make it out of this without a target on his back.

"Hmph? What?" Anthony's voice spoke up. He sounded croaky and drowsy, with a slight lisp that hadn’t been there before. "Wha's it, angel?"

"Keep your voice down, darling. We have company," he said. "Mr Wilson's asleep on the sofa there."

"Oh. When'd he get here?" he said, quieter this time. 

"Not so long ago. He's very tired, poor dear, so I gave him a place to rest his head," he explained. "He's been no trouble, has he?"

"Didn't even know he was here, angel," he replied. Wilson's curiosity finally got the better of him - where had Anthony been lurking all the time he'd been here? Why hadn't he noticed him? He cracked one eye open, hoping they were both too taken up with one another to notice the movement.

At first, he was baffled. Mr Fell was stood by the desk, gently stroking the black snake which now seemed to have woken up. It raised its head further and further up, revelling in Fell's touch, its coils falling down to cover the address book again. He saw no sign of Anthony anywhere. 

"Could I trouble to change forms again, dear? I'd rather like a kiss," he said sweetly. Wilson's brow creased for an instant. His face quickly went slack again as the snake gave a short hiss, and began to change.

When its head began to grow and reshape itself, at first, he thought his eyes had failed him. When it didn't stop, his brain began to slow down until it finally abandoned all attempts at rationalisation. The serpent's thin neck broadened into a pair of shoulders, with the rest of its long body being drawn together in an indistinct black mass which then formed a torso and legs. Wilson had stopped breathing. The black scales of its face paled to dusky grey, which then shifted again into a human flesh tone. Finally, Crowley's hawkish face took form. 

"Pucker up, angel," he said, grinning at his husband. 

Aziraphale happily obliged, leaning in for his kiss. Wilson shut his eyes again, his heart beating an irregular rhythm as reality seemed to crumble underfoot. He couldn't even think in full sentences. His whole worldview buzzed with static, confusion, and sheer terror. He was vaguely aware of the two husbands close-by, speaking in hushed voices so as not to disturb him. Hardly thinking, he let out a shuddering breath, curling into a tight ball.

"Oh - Mr Wilson? Are you awake?" Mr Fell called, only slightly raising his voice, just in case he was wrong. Wilson's body gave an involuntary lurch of fear. "Good heavens, dear boy, what on Earth was that? Are you all right?"

He scrambled into a sitting position as Fell made his way over. He barely saw his wide, worried eyes before he looked past him, at his husband. Crowley stared back, relaxed yet guarded. "Something on my face?" he asked after a beat of silence, reaching up to touch his cheek.

"Oh - uh, no, sorry," he said, shaking his head and forcing himself to look away. "Bad dream. Sorry."

"You poor boy," Aziraphale cooed, putting a hand on his shoulder. He felt the tension under his palm. "Shall I get you some tea?"

"No," he said, a little too sharply. Aziraphale drew back, hurt.

"There really is no need for that kind of tone," he said reproachfully, crossing his arms. 

"S - Sorry. Look, I have to go," he said, hands shaking as he pulled on his boots. He was loathe to take his eyes away from the two of them, paranoid that he'd feel talons closing around his throat at any moment. "Thanks for - for the - this. See you."

With that, he all but threw himself across the room, flinging open the door and vanishing. "Hmph. Cheerio, then," Aziraphale said peevishly to the empty room, putting his hands on his hips. 

"Don't mind him, angel," Crowley said, resting his chin on his shoulder. "He's human. Dreams can spook 'em sometimes. If you slept more often, you'd get it."

"If you say so, dear..." he said pensively, eyeing the open door he'd fled through. "But I do hope he's okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my friend CrazyBeCat in this fic for helping me develop my concepts & introducing me to the concept of the Dullahan <3


	2. DU11 4H4N

Laura and Clara had already begun the lengthy process of adoption. They'd been attending all the relevant preparatory classes, and the social worker would be coming soon to speak with them and inspect the home. Clara had spoken to him over the phone once or twice, and he seemed quite nice. She couldn't sit still while she waited. Her wife watched her with some amusement on the sofa, sipping her coffee.

"I'm usually the one who gets antsy when we have people around," she said, placing a hand on her knee. "It's not like you to get anxious like this."

"I know, it's just - I'm worried," she said, grasping her hand tightly. Laura winced slightly. "There's a lot riding on this. We've been talking about starting a family for years, and - God, I just want this to go smoothly."

"It will," she said, pressing a kiss to her cheek. As if on cue, the doorbell rang. "Ah. That'll be him."

Clara jumped to her feet, smoothing out her dress and tucking her flyaway red hair behind her ears. Laura watched her fondly. She'd insisted they both dress nicely for the visit for a good first impression, and she had to admit, Clara had really pulled out all the stops. Her freckles were dark and visible across the bridge of her nose, with her hair pulled into a messy bun with only a few frizzy strands hanging down. She'd been fussing over them for hours in the bedroom before Laura could convince her she looked gorgeous just the way she was. That was a stroke of luck, because it took _another_ half-hour for her to settle on wearing her white summer dress with the pink roses, rather than the one with sunflowers. Laura, for her part, just wore her work clothes. 

She hurried to the door, opening it to find a young man on the step. "Hi there," he said with a wide, white grin, holding out his hand to shake. "I'm Francis, the social worker. You must be Clara."

She shook his hand. "That's right. Please come in, my partner and I have been very excited for your visit," she said, stepping aside to let him in.

"Yes, your partner - sorry, didn't have time to read your file before I had to scoot over this morning," he said, coming in. "His name was Laurence, wasn't it? I'd hate to make a fool of myself at my first adoption assessment by calling him the wrong name!"

Clara shut the door with an awkward laugh. He'd managed that already. "Actually, it's Laura," she said. "She's my wife."

His smile slipped. Clara's heart lurched, catching the flash of disdain in his eyes before he had chance to hide it. He plastered the smile back onto his face, but it came back with an artificial edge. "My mistake," he said, his voice colder than before, though the change was almost imperceptible. Clara heard it clearly.

"Right this way," she said quietly, showing him through to the living room with a dejected slump in her shoulders. 

Laura noticed it too - the way he never seemed to relax, or never seemed to dig deeper than surface level questions, as if he'd already made up his mind. By the time he was leaving again, a thick blanket of silence lay over the house. Clara collapsed back onto the sofa. Laura sat beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as she abruptly burst into tears. She shivered and sobbed into her shirt, mumbling things about how long they'd waited for it all to come to this... They couldn't even lodge a formal complaint, not unless they had evidence of homophobia, which they didn't. Detachment could easily be written off as professional distance, and early dismissals from the adoption process weren't uncommon. If he rejected them outright, there wouldn't be a lot they could do, especially if he found a reason to cover himself. A prickle ran across Laura's skin, wondering what he might by think if he discovered that Mr Fell and Mr Crowley were their friends - two men who, not long ago, were under suspicion for at least thirty counts of murder, organised crime and conspiracy to traffic drugs. 

Late that night, when Clara was in the shower, Laura stood in the kitchen. The artificial light glaring off the tiles reminded her of the interrogation room at work; just a halo of light in a reservoir of darkness. The contacts list on her phone was open, with her thumb hovering over a particular name. She posed plenty of questions to herself that night. Did she understand what the consequences might be, if she did this? How far was she willing to go to make her wife happy? What would happen if she just put the phone down and let prejudice interfere in her life, _again_? She tightened her grip on the phone. Her knuckles turned white as she remembered all the times she'd seen things like this before.

1967; as a young child, her earliest memory was seeing the window of a shop smashed in the day homosexuality was decriminalised, with slurs painted onto the walls that she wouldn't understand until she was well into her teen years. 

1978; her own father threw her out of the house when he caught her kissing a girl outside the school gates. She'd spent the next six months homeless.

1995; she arrested two men for hate crime. The victim had called the police after they threw a brick through her window with slurs taped to it, and tried to set fire to her house. Carlton had been first on-scene. She stayed behind at the scene to comfort the victim while her partner took credit for the arrest, despite having arrived late. The woman who was targeted was a bright-eyed university student - intelligent, resilient, funny, beautiful... Her name was Clara. 

She remembered the first time she'd met Mr Fell, who seemed nervous to let anyone see him with his husband. Even mob bosses carried the scars of prejudice, it seemed. Her heart broke for him, feeling that pain as keenly as her own, knowing that they both shared the same wounds. If anyone would understand, he would. If anyone could help them, _he_ could. Half-desperate and half-vengeful, she hit CALL. 

It rang twice before he picked up. "Hello?"

"Hey. It's Laura," she said. Her voice rasped uncomfortably in her throat, strained from holding back tears. 

"Oh! Hello, dear. What are you doing calling so late?" he said, a note of concern entering his voice. 

"I... I need to ask a favour of you, Aziraphale," she said hesitantly. She squeezed her eyes shut, thanking God that he couldn't see the cowardly gesture. 

"What kind of favour?" he asked curiously after a moment's pause. 

"W - well... I'm sure Clara probably told you that we've been trying to adopt," she said. She held her breath for a moment and he gave a pleased hum of affirmation. "We saw our social worker today and - and it all went wrong. Clara's distraught."

He made a pitying noise. "Oh dear..."

"The bastard was a homophobe, Zira," she spat, suddenly bristling with an anger that was almost as old as she was. "He made up his mind the moment he saw me and realised we weren't some sparkling typical heterosexual couple. He's going to wreck everything, just because he - he doesn't like us, and there's not a damn thing we can do about it. The prick didn't give us enough proof to present to a board of appeals. We're fucked."

She breathed heavily into the silence, her fist tightly closed around the kitchen counter behind her. Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully after her tirade. "Rightio, then. That won't do," he said, his tone sour with distaste. "Did you mention this man's name at all..?"

"It was - erm - give me a moment," she said, digging in her pocket for the crumpled contact card he'd left behind. "Francis Berresford. I have a phone number, email and the postcode for his workplace too, if you'll be needing it."

"Not necessary, just his name is perfectly sufficient," he said confidently. "You leave this with me, my dear. I'll see to it."

She swallowed hard. "Okay," she said. "Um... Aziraphale?"

"Yes?"

"You won't - you won't hurt him, will you?" she said tentatively. "Not too badly, at least."

He gave a hearty chuckle. "I won't need to lay a finger on him, don't you worry," he said. "Some men just need to be reminded of their manners, wouldn't you agree?"

"Sure," she said, her stomach churning. She rubbed her temples, and was disturbed to find that she still didn't regret asking him for this. With a jolt of realisation, she had to ask herself: was making this phone call tantamount to calling out a hit on her social worker? 

"I'll make sure you get a new social worker, anyway, I should think. Better to have a clean slate," he continued with an air of finality about his voice, as if everything he said would simply _happen_ , as if by magic. "I'll get on that right away. Toodle-pip, dear, do make sure you get some sleep."

"Yeah, I will. Thanks," she said, and hung up the phone. 

Number 5, Pear Street, was located in a tiny village several miles out from London. It was as quaint as villages came, sprawled out with large allotments wedged between each red-brick cottage, and chickens pecking along the roadsides. The local pub was called The City Limits, and it was in fierce competition with the the local watering hole (not to be confused), The Village Arms. The Murphy siblings were divided over which was better, and usually ended up alone in a dark corner of their respective choice. 

Countryside life was odd, to them. Mr Fell had promised them that, so long as they followed the law, no one would connect them to their past crimes. Knowing how literal fairies could be, they were now model citizens. Their taxes were pristine, their home was rigorously up-to-code, and they hadn't so much as pirated a CD since they left the city. Clyde had given up smoking. It had been hard for him, but he'd been paranoid about lighting one up out of habit in a public place and breaking their word to the fairy queen. It was better this way. 

Currently, hiding from the sunshine from beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat, Clyde was working in their allotment. He grumbled curses under his breath about the heat. It was wilting the plants, no matter how much he watered them, it seemed.

"Oi!" Morgan called over from the porch. "Talkin' to the plants won't help 'em grow, ya feckin' lunatic."

He twisted around to glare at her. "Have you got a better idea?" he retorted.

She threw an apple at him, which he barely managed to catch before it hit the soil. "Read a book," she said, walking the rest of the way down the garden with two drinks in her hand. She handed him the one with ice cubes in it. 

He huffed. "Had enough of books," he said, draining the drink in one gulp and handing the glass back to her. 

Morgan became aware of a car in her peripheral vision. She didn't turn to look at it, continuing to talk to her brother and assuming it would pass by. When it rolled to a halt near their garden gate, she turned her head slightly, to indicate to Clyde that something was happening. He gave a terse nod. He'd seen it, too. There was a long moment where the world stood still, waiting for something to happen.

The driver's side door popped open. A young, dark-haired man stepped out. He stayed half-crouched behind the car door for a moment, expecting to need a shield from attack. Neither sibling moved. The newcomer closed the door, and began to edge along the garden fence. He stopped at a respectful distance from the two of them. 

"It's... it's you," said Wilson, eyes wide and breaths shallow. 

Clyde got to his feet. Morgan turned to face him. Neither spoke, fixing him with twin glares hotter than the sun which beat down between the cloud cover.

He cleared his throat awkwardly, looking at his feet. "I'm not here to arrest you. I'm off-duty," he said. He hadn’t dared approach Carlton with what he’d seen in the shop; she’d have had him checked into a psych ward quicker than he could say _snake_. "I didn't - I didn't think I'd find you here. I didn't know what I expected to find..."

Clyde raised his chin, and Morgan narrowed her eyes at him. "Did he send you?" she asked quietly.

"Who?" he said, glancing over his shoulder as if 'he' would be there. 

"Mr Fell," she said. He paused, shaking his head slowly. She pursed her lips. "No one else knows where we are. If he didn't tell you, who did? What does he want?"

"I... I saw this address in his shop, written down," he admitted, scratching the back of his neck. "I honestly didn't know where it would take me. I'm grasping at straws here, please, I just - I need answers. My friends could be in danger, and I've seen things I can't explain, and I need someone to just explain to me what the _fuck_ is going on in that bookshop."

The siblings shared a glance. "Why should we?" Clyde said, after the silent conversation with his sister. "Mr Fell's been pissed off with us before, and it ain't pretty."

"Let me put it this way: if you don't talk, there's no reason I can't go back to London and put your new address on record," he said, nodding toward the cottage. "Could even re-open the case into Mr Fell, too. I found it there. Bet he'd just love that, wouldn't he?"

Clyde's lip curled. "Bastard," he hissed under his breath. They shared a few words in an undertone before coming to a decision. "You'd better come in. No sudden movements, y'hear?"

He nodded slowly, slipping in through the garden gate and following them into the house. Morgan glanced around suspiciously before closing the door behind them. 

Wilson didn't know what he expected from their house. It wasn't this, that's for sure. Ditsy flower wallpaper covered the walls, with gleaming wooden floorboards and thick wooden beams overhead. Everything was meticulously cleaned, and there was even a perfect arrangement of flowers beside the door. He arched a brow in surprise. "This is nice," he commented.

"Shut up," Morgan replied, pushing past him into the living room.

He followed them in, but didn't sit down. Neither of them did, either. He found himself subtly shepherded to the centre of the room, with Clyde in front of him and Morgan behind, blocking the exit. It was a classic mob intimidation tactic; he couldn't face one of them without turning his back on the other. He held his head high. For the second time that week, he'd walked straight into a mob hideout. With a smirk, he wondered if there was a world record to be had for that.

"Tell us why you're here, and what you want. You have two minutes and counting," Clyde said, taking out his phone and showing him the screen. He started the timer. "Go."

Wilson blinked, taking a moment to order his thoughts. "My friend and her wife got involved with Mr Fell and his husband. I was terrified for them, so I got into his shop to - to spy on him, I guess, and... God, how do I put this?" he said, sucking in a deep breath and seeing that he still had over half his time left. "I saw Anthony shapeshift. He was a snake, and then - then he was a man."

Clyde abruptly stopped the timer. His jaw was slack. "You what?"

"I'm not lying!" he said defensively.

"That's not what he said, ya eedjit," Morgan snapped from behind. He glanced over his shoulder, seeing her sheet-white face staring back at him. "Tell us what ya saw."

He gave an awkward cough, and launched into a play-by-play description of what he'd seen. Without a time limit, he described every odd thing he saw in the shop, even the old photographs in the drawer. Morgan began to pace around the room in agitation. Clyde stayed very still. With their formation broken, Wilson could at least keep both of them in his line of sight again. When he came to the end of his story, he gave a nervous laugh.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you believed me," he said, half-hoping they'd swiftly contradict him. His smile faded slightly when they didn't. 

"We do," Clyde said softly, and finally collapsed onto the sofa. He buried his head in his hands, taking deep breaths as Morgan gently laid her fingertips on his shoulder. She shot Wilson a wary glance, as if nervous to show affection while someone could see. "Listen, pal... what's your name?"

"Wilson. James Wilson," he said. He respectfully looked away, hoping he could make them a little more comfortable. Police work was all about compromise. It was a skill you learned early on if you wanted to climb the career ladder... hence why Carlton had hit a dead end in hers.

"We know what they are. You gotta understand, if we tell you... you're in this, too," he said tensely, raising his head to stare at him. "God help you if he ever finds out you know."

He squared his shoulders. "I need to know. I have people to protect."

"Look out, we got a hero here," Morgan said, rolling her eyes. "You asked for it... They're fae. Fair folk. Fairies. However you want to put it, that's what they are."

Wilson stared for a long time. His mouth began to twist into a nervous smile, a laugh trying to break over his lips, but it was stifled by the dead silence in the room. "You're - uh - you're really not joking, huh?" he said, nodding slowly. "Hm. Right... fairies. Like, with little butterfly wings and magic wands?"

"Wrong type of fairy. These are Irish fae," Clyde said, trying to recall what their old book had said before Morgan bargained it away. "They're wily, and clever. It’s not unusual for them to shapeshift. They make deals with humans, and if ya know what's good for you, you stay away. No deal with the fair folk ever turned out okay for a human, not really."

"How come you got tied up with them, then?" he said sceptically.

"We were too stupid to get out of the way until it was too late," Morgan replied. She perched on the armrest of the sofa, examining her nails in false nonchalance. "How'd you think we ended up out here? We're in Fell's debt. We always will be. So long as we do as he says, though, we're safe."

"He forced us to give it up. Everything we worked for, everything our father built," Clyde said. There was an undertone of resentment in his voice. "We dissolved the mob, and in return, we get immunity from your lot."

Wilson opened his mouth, then closed it again. "So..." he said slowly. "What, we're all under some sort of spell? Making sure we don't arrest you?"

"We don't know how it works, okay? It just does," Morgan snapped. "We know bits and pieces about those two. They admitted they're fae, and it's pretty obvious that Fell is the Queen, but that's about it."

Wilson's lip curled. "There's no need for slurs," he said, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. Former mob boss or not, he didn't have to stand here and listen to that filth.

"It's not a slur," she shot back, sneering at him. "That's literally what he is. Fairies have courts, every court has a queen who's in charge. That's him."

Clyde saw the doubt still creasing his brow. "Don't think of it like some sort of Disney princess deal. It's more like... y'know _Alien_ , with Sigourney Weaver in it?" he said, and Wilson nodded. "Then think of Mr Fell more like the Xenomorph Queen."

Wilson pictured it for a moment, and gave a full-body shudder. He'd known for a long time that he was not a man to be trifled with, and a picture was now starting to come together as to why. The very fact that he was entertaining such an idea as fairies seemed somehow distant and untouchable, even as it became his reality. He wondered if it would ever really sink in. He rubbed the back of his neck. This really wasn't what he expected to get out of today, but since he was here, he may as well run with it. 

"So what does a fairy queen want with my friends?" he asked. The siblings frowned, and were just beginning to ponder that question when there was a loud banging at the door. 

Clyde leapt to his feet, his tattoos rippling as tension gripped his muscles. Morgan slipped across the room, peeking out of the window. Immediately, she jumped back as if she'd been struck across the face. "It's him!" she hissed, bristling. "AJ's here!"

"Fuck!" Clyde said through gritted teeth. He turned a burning glare on Wilson, moving to tower over him. Wilson stumbled backward a few paces, awkwardly leaning backward just to keep eye contact. "You brought him here, didn't you? Did you make some sort of deal? Did you sell us out?"

He shook his head desperately. "I - I didn't, I swear!" he said, heart pounding. He was unarmed, effectively defenceless, and not a single soul knew where he'd gone that day. He was utterly at Clyde's mercy.

Morgan's fingers closed around her brother's bicep. "Lay off him, ya feckin' idiot! There's a fae at the door. Pretty-boy here isn't our problem right now," she hissed, pulling him back. "Answer the door. I'll take care of this one, it's better AJ doesn't know he's here."

Clyde opened his mouth to bite back, when the door rattled again. He jumped. A flash of white-hot fear crossed his face, and any doubt Wilson had about their story quickly evaporated. Nothing short of a true monster would frighten Clyde Murphy like that. He quickly found himself bundled up the stairs by Morgan, while Clyde steeled himself to answer the door. He daren't wait a moment longer before he opened it.

"Mr AJ, sir, what a pleasure," he said, summoning up every ounce of hospitality he could muster. His eyes darted around behind him, searching for any sign of a white coat. He only saw the sleek black car on the kerb. "A - Are you alone?"

"Yup," he replied, and shouldered his way inside the house. Clyde didn't resist. He knew well enough how much words mattered when it came to speaking with fairies, and he would never have invited Crowley to come in. That could be freely interpreted in too many ways. Better to just let him do what he wanted. "Hope you don't mind me dropping in unannounced."

"Not at all," he said, trailing him nervously into the kitchen. He glanced fearfully up the stairs, where he knew Morgan was hiding their other houseguest. "May I ask why..?"

"No need," he said, dangling a wicker basket from his hand to illustrate his words. He set it down on the kitchen counter. "Our favourite fae just sent me to give you this - free of charge, of course, no strings attached."

Clyde's breath hitched for a moment. That was odd. Fairies never just handed out presents like that... With a nervous glance at Crowley, who leant his hip against the table and watched him with a detached sort of amusement, he lifted the lid of the basket. Inside, there was a bunch of flowers, accompanied by two apples and a good wine*. Clyde dropped the lid again. He swallowed hard, suddenly nervous that rejecting the gift would be offensive somehow. 

*Not from Aziraphale's personal collection, Hea - He - er, somewhere forbid.

"That's very kind," he said, nodding. "And - and I don't mean any disrespect when I ask this, sir, but... why?"

He grinned. "I think you underestimate how much my husband likes people who give him food and books. They're his favourite things," he said fondly. He crossed his arms, leaning back casually. "You're in his good graces. Just take the gift."

Clyde was elated. He pushed down his relieved smile, opting for a few short nods instead. "Heh, food and books... is that how he fell for you, then?" he joked.

He chuckled, shaking his head lightly. "No idea what made him fall for me. All I know is, I was screwed the first time we met. I'd barely even told him my name, and next thing I knew, I was his," he said, his voice becoming distant and dreamy as he relived the scene on the wall. In his cold black heart, he'd known Aziraphale was different the moment he'd admitted to giving away the flaming sword. It had only taken a few more centuries to really admit that to himself. 

Clyde had taken a very different message from that sentence. He felt a prickle of sympathy for Crowley as he remembered the first and most important rule of dealing with fair folk: Do Not Tell Them Your Name. He and Morgan both had middle names and, without them, Mr Fell didn't have total power over either of them. Clearly, even other fairies sometimes made the mistake of opening themselves up to their own kind. Poor AJ had probably just been minding his own business one day, when he'd met the man who would become his Queen. Mr Fell was so warm and friendly, Crowley’s mistake had probably happened as naturally as falling asleep. One small slip of the tongue, and that was it. He unknowingly handed himself over on a silver platter. Poor guy. It certainly explained why he was completely under Mr Fell's thumb.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. "I noticed your car outside. It's a beaut," he said. Fairies loved flattery, and he hoped he could at least cheer him up a bit before he went home. He doubted it was an easy topic, and the last thing he needed was Mr Fell knocking on the door asking what he’d done to upset his husband.

"Hm? Oh, yeah, she is," he said, smiling again. He stood up, leaving the kitchen and heading toward the front door. Clyde followed at a respectful distance. "I just a got new number plate, too. The old one just wasn't _me_ , you know?"

He nodded along, humming in agreement. Crowley opened the door, flashing him a grin over his shoulder as he walked down the garden path. "Oh, and Clyde?" he called.

"What?" he said, tensing up again, expecting him to finally reveal the catch behind the mysterious gift. 

"Don't worry about me parking the car in front of your house. It doesn't mean anything," he said, and laid a hand over where his heart would be. "Horseman's honour."

Clyde's brow creased in confusion. The demon chuckled in amusement, swinging himself down into the driver's seat of the Bentley. The car was beautiful jet black, in immaculate condition, with an engine that purred more than it roared. The tyres crunched on the gravel as he reversed into the road, seemingly with no regard for whoever might be behind him. For one moment, the bonnet of the car stared Clyde dead in the face. His eyes dropped to the number plate. A bolt of adrenaline hit him like a steam train the instant he saw it: DU11 4H4N.

"The Dullahan," he whispered hoarsely to himself, unable to blink as he watched the infamous omen of death rev its engine and lurch into motion again, accelerating back toward Soho at breakneck pace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun game: suggest names for Laura & Clara’s baby in the comments so I don’t have to trawl the depths of baby name websites... again


	3. Fairy Godfather

Morgan and Wilson sat on a bed upstairs, facing one another in awkward silence. Neither dared talk. Beneath them, the muffled sound of Crowley's voice pushed up through the floorboards. Morgan fidgeted uncomfortably, wishing she could pace around, but the sound of her footsteps would surely draw attention from below. 

"What do you think he wants?" Wilson whispered, his voice barely even carrying to the opposite end of the bed.

She shrugged, her knuckles white around her knees. "Fuck if I know. I'm just glad Mr Fell isn't here," she replied. She looked all around the room before noticing the sympathetic stare she was getting. She scowled. "What? What are you looking at me like that for?"

"He really frightens you, doesn't he?" he said softly. She swallowed hard.

"Shut it."

"I'm not judging," he said. She shot him a sideways glance, weighing up his expression... she found no insincerity there. "I'll help you if I can, you know."

Her lip twitched. "You'd be a fool to try."

"I know," he said. Her brow furrowed in surprise, unable to comprehend the broad, cheeky smile creeping onto his face. This man was insane! Despite herself, she began to smile too. That damn expression was contagious.

Footsteps thundered up the stairs, abruptly wiping the smiles off their faces as reality tightened around them again. Morgan recognised her brother's gait, saving her from the embarrassment of panicking in front of Wilson. It was actually _him_ that screamed when Clyde burst in, much to her amusement.

There was no time for laughter. "The Dullahan!" Clyde cried, leaning heavily on the doorframe as he caught his breath. "AJ's the goddamned Dullahan."

Morgan blanched, clapping a hand over her mouth. Wilson looked between them both, dread encircling him rapidly. "What? What is that?" he asked helplessly. "Am I missing something here or am I just English?"

Clyde let out a bitter laugh. "Both," he said. "The Dullahan's... well, he's an old legend. He's the headless horseman."

Wilson arched a brow. "Last time I checked, Anthony definitely had a head."

Morgan finally tore her hand away from her mouth. "Yeah, and _we_ thought fairies lived in the woods and Queens were supposed to be women, but here we are!" she said angrily. She turned on Clyde. "How do you know? Could you be wrong?"

He shook his head. "He told me not to worry about him parking the car outside - the Cóiste Bodhar, big and black just like the old stories. He said it didn't mean anything - _horseman's honour._ His words, not mine," he said. He crossed his arms tightly. "His numberplate was DU - eleven - four - H - four - N. That's when it clicked."

Wilson held up his hand. "I'm still lost."

Morgan sighed, twisting around to face him again. "Long story short, the Dullahan is... well, he's death. Not quite the grim reaper, but something similar," she said. She hugged herself, giving a full-body shudder. "Wherever he stops, death is sure to follow. I guess that's why he told Clyde not to panic, 'cause he isn't here to foretell a death."

"Pa told us stories about him when we were small," Clyde continued. "This huge headless rider with a whip made from a human spine, who can drag your soul from your body just by calling out your name... Pure nightmare fuel, that was."

Wilson raised his eyebrows, pursing his lips. "Well, your childhood sounds fun," he said facetiously. 

"Not that it's any of your business," Clyde said, shooting him a glare. "Anyway, I haven't got to the worst part yet. He let something slip before he left, something I don't think I was supposed to know."

"Oh?" Morgan said, sitting up on her knees. She and Wilson shared a curious glance.

"He'd stopped by to give us a gift from Mr Fell, to thank us for our offerings," he said. He ignored his sister's furrowed brow. "He mentioned that when he and Fell first met, he told him his name. The man signed himself over to him, by mistake."

Her jaw dropped. "You're jokin'," she said. Turning to Wilson, she briefly explained: "If a fae knows your full name, they have power over you. Make sure they don't find out your middle name, if you have one."

He nodded obediently. At this stage, he'd take any advice she gave him. He did have a middle name, as luck would have it, and it was embarrassing enough that hardly anyone knew it. It would be no hardship, having a reason to keep that quiet. 

"So, Mr Fell... that mad bastard actually went and fooled the Dullahan into marrying him?" Morgan continued in awe. She gave a long whistle. "Gotta say, I almost respect him. That's a hell of a catch."

Clyde gave a derisive snort. "You don't say!" he said, throwing up his arms in exasperation. "This puts Fell into a whole other _league_ , Morgan. I ain't never heard of a fairy queen who could grapple with the likes of the Dullahan and win. Jesus, this is bad... we're in way deeper than we thought."

A stilted silence fell over the room. Wilson watched the two siblings carefully, the way this news weighed heavy on them, putting a slump in their shoulders and a droop in their spines. A whole childhood of myths and folklore gave weight to their fears. Wilson didn't have that burden. The idea of fairies and not-actually-headless horsemen seemed new and alien to him, something to be challenged, investigated and overcame. He hadn't forgotten what he came here for in the first place. 

"Look," he spoke up, drawing their attention. "I don't have a clue what half of this stuff means, but... I want to help you. My friends are tied up in all this too, and I don't want them to get hurt. If we can help each other figure this whole thing out, maybe we can do something about it. What do you say?"

Clyde sucked in a deep breath through his teeth. "That's suicide."

"Is it?" Morgan challenged. He turned sharply toward her, eyes wide. 

"Hey, whose side are you on?" he said, curling his lip. 

"I'm on our side. So is he," she said, gesturing at Wilson. He gave a tiny wave. "I'm just sayin', Clyde, maybe he's got a point. We wouldn't be right in the line o' fire this way, and hey, we never promised we wouldn't look into him a bit more."

Clyde cringed. "Think about what we're dealin' with here, Morgs. This is the Dullahan's Queen. Half an hour ago, we didn't even know somethin' like that was even possible," he said, his pale face betraying his frayed nerves. "Anyone who can command death itself is not someone I want to go toe-to-toe with."

She took a deep breath, and crossed her arms. "Fine. Maybe you won't, but I will," she said, raising her chin. She shot a sidelong glance at Wilson, her usual frosty stare beginning to thaw. "I don't want to be frightened anymore."

"Oh for fuck's sake," Clyde groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You know I can't let you face him alone."

She gave a sly grin, which Wilson couldn't help but imitate. "Yeah, I know," she said triumphantly. He was her brother, and she always knew just how to twist his arm. "Welcome to the team, Clyde."

Laura was floored by the next few weeks. She had no idea what Aziraphale had done, but he'd apparently put them on some sort of adoption fast-track. Everything was moving at record speed. Police checks came and went without a single comment on their connections in Soho, and their new social worker submitted a glowing report on their suitability for parenthood. There was only one thing left to do. 

Wilson arrived first, looking tired but happy. Clara let him in, ushering him through to the living room where a tea tray and a warm homemade apple pie was waiting. "Now this is what I call a warm welcome," James laughed, collapsing onto the sofa. He immediately began helping himself to the pie. "What's the occasion?"

"You'll have to wait and see," Laura replied, settling on the sofa opposite him. She was smiling softly, at-ease, as she welcomed Clara into her arms beside her. "We're still waiting for the others to arrive."

He arched a brow. "All right, be cryptic. I'm gonna eat this whole pie," he said, gesturing at the tray with one cheek still full of food.

Clara laughed. "Leave some for the rest of us," she said. He shook his head stubbornly, pretending to reach across as if to steal the whole pastry dish. She smacked the back of his hand with a spoon. "Off!"

He backed off, chuckling slightly as the weight of his recent investigations was briefly forgotten. He'd not breathed a word to Laura, or Clara. The Murphy siblings had made it very clear that they had no intentions of setting foot in Soho while he was poking around in Mr Fell's business. It would be too incriminating. He promised he'd keep them posted about what he found, and they'd feed him all the information they knew to patch the gaps in his knowledge. Until he found something, though, he was free to relax. 

There was a polite knock at the door. "That'll be them," Clara said brightly, hopping to her feet and hurrying over. She was dressed in one of Laura's jumpers, which was far too big for her, making her seem more like a kid in a sweet shop than a grown woman going to answer the door. 

"She seems really happy today," James said, spearing a lump of stewed apple on his fork. "Seriously, what's going on?"

Laura glanced at the doorframe, listening to the muffled noise of her wife greeting their new guests. She leaned forward, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial tone. "The adoption's close to going through," she said, with a sparkle in her eye.

He choked slightly on his food. "Hell, that was quick," he said, when he recovered.

She shrugged, a knowing smile on her lips as she leant back against the sofa. "I asked for a favour from a friend," she said vaguely. Her eyes flicked up to the doorway just behind James. "Speak of the devil, and here he is."

James turned, and all the colour immediately drained from his face. Aziraphale chuckled awkwardly, clearly trying to avoid his husband's teasing look. "Indeed," he said, coming around the sofa to sit down beside James. "Lovely seeing you all."

"We're always happy to have you, Zi," Clara said, laying a hand briefly on his shoulder as she passed. She fixed Crowley with a false scowl. "Anthony... you're okay too, I guess."

He put on a high-pitched mockery of her voice. _"You're okay too I guess!"_ he said, pulling a face at her. The two redheads descended into laughter, and their respective spouses shared a long-suffering glance and a fond eye-roll.

James felt too sick to eat. Fell was so close, he could feel the warmth rolling off his body. He subtly leaned away from him, looking anywhere but directly at him. Everything the Murphys had said washed over him again, battering him like waves against a hard shoreline of dread. Mr Fell, the wily fairy queen, and his husband, the Dullahan himself! He suddenly realised that Laura was giving him a hard stare.

_Calm down,_ she mouthed at him, her eyes darting meaningfully toward Clara, still smiling as she cut a slice of pie for Aziraphale. If she spotted his terror-stricken face, she'd immediately start fussing over him. Not wanting to spoil her good mood, he forced himself to put on a smile of his own. He took another bite of apple pie to help it along. Morgan had reiterated the importance of secrecy many times to him. The moment Mr Fell grew suspicious, they were all screwed, and they might find the Cóiste Bodhar at their doors for more than just a friendly visit. 

Seeing him relax, Laura leaned over, resting a hand on Clara's knee. "We should probably tell them what they're here for, Clara," she said. 

"Oh, right, yeah," she said, tightening her ponytail out of a nervous habit. She cast an excited stare across all three of them. "So, the adoption's been going really smoothly so far, and apart from the medical checks there's only one thing left to do before we get matched with our baby."

"Right," Crowley said, listening intently despite his attempts at nonchalance. His arm was slung over the back of the sofa, and James was very conscious of those sharp nails sitting close to his ear. 

"We need three people to provide provide a reference for us, and y'know, assure the authorities that there's no reason we shouldn't be parents," she said, now grinning broadly. She leaned over, grasping Laura's hand, who smiled lovingly at her. "And we'd like our future baby's godfathers to be the ones to do it."

She bit her lip, watching the realisation dawn quickly on Crowley's face. He sat bolt upright, in a very unusual gesture for him. "Wait, really?" he said, his eyebrows high on his forehead and his mouth in a distinct O shape. He and his husband shared a dumbstruck glance.

"No, we're joking," Laura said sarcastically. "Yes, really, you idiot. We want you three to be godfathers."

Aziraphale finally snapped out of it, taking an almost tearful gasp and pressing a hand to his chest. "Oh, my, that's wonderful," he said, achingly sincere and quickly overwhelming himself with angelic protectiveness. He was a principality, after all, and being given something and then told _here, this is for you to look after_ triggered a very specific, very potent need to guard that thing with his life. He didn't even know what child he was supposed to be looking after yet, but the instinct was already there. "We accept, of course!"

"Yeah, absolutely," Crowley added, who didn't have quite the same in-built instincts as Aziraphale, but who did have a strong 'Nanny Ashtoreth' side, which was just as good.

"Thanks, guys," Laura said, giving a genuine smile. "It means a lot."

"James?" Clara said, turning to him at last. "You're very quiet. What's gotten into you?"

He swallowed hard, struggling to suppress the anxiety forming a whirlpool in his gut. "Um - I - that's great, Clara," he said, quickly pulling a smile into place. A powerful fear took root in his belly, with no idea what this could mean for their baby. "I'm honoured, really. Thanks."

Laura nodded. "Great. That's a clean sweep," she said, giving Clara a nudge in the ribs. "Our little one'll be in good hands, I think. Don't you?"

"Sure, if Zi can keep himself from spoiling them rotten," she said, shooting a knowing glance in his direction. Aziraphale sipped his tea innocently, pretending not to hear her. 

After he left Carlton's home, Wilson drove recklessly until he found a quiet place to stop. His knuckles were tight around the steering wheel for a long time before he found the presence of mind to tear them free, fumbling for his phone. 

"Hello?" a familiar Irish accent said when they picked up the phone.

"Morgan!" he cried. "Something's happened, I need to ask you something."

She groaned. "Right. Clyde, get in here! James has news," she yelled, and there was a rustling noise as her brother rushed over to the phone. He heard a click. "You're on speaker. Tell us the tale."

He breathed deeply. "Okay, so," he said, "I have these friends, right, and they're adopting a baby soon. They just asked me, Mr Fell and Mr Crowley to be godfathers, and I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing... Guys? Are you still there? Hello?"

The line buzzed in silence for a few seconds. "Shit," Clyde said, almost inaudible. "Why didn't ya tell us that there were goin’ to be children involved? This changes everything, ya eedjit!"

"What? Why?" he demanded, heart bucking as he sat up in the driver's seat. 

"Because fairies steal children. They're infamous for it," he continued angrily. "They can't help themselves."

Wilson spluttered, shock washing down his spine like hot water. "Steal - ? What? What for?" he said. 

"Stories vary," Morgan cut in sadly. "Some people say they raise them as their own. Others say they're just... y'know, disposed of. I've even heard a legend that says they eat the humans they kidnap, like a delicacy."

He slammed his head against the steering wheel with a painful thump. "I'm gonna be sick," he said. "What's even the point? Kidnapping a baby just to kill it?"

"That's not all they do. For every baby they take, they always leave a replacement," Clyde explained. "It's called a changeling. See, fae are like cuckoos. They don't look after their own young. They plant 'em in human homes, and just leave 'em there to grow up."

"When the kid's old enough, some stories reckon, their real parents call them back home to the fairy realm," Morgan said. "The kid vanishes, and the human parents don't have a clue what happened. More than ten years o' their lives, just... poof. Gone, wasted on raisin' a tot that wasn't theirs."

"Wait wait wait, so," he said, sitting up again with a red mark across his forehead. "You're telling me that Mr Fell is going to take my friend's baby, and replace it with his own?"

"Aye."

"... and his baby will come from where, exactly?" he said, leaning his forehead against the cold glass window. "He's male, right? And his husband, too."

They gave a thoughtful hum. "Well... maybe it doesn't work like that for them," Morgan said uncertainly. He could almost see the questioning look she was giving Clyde. "Fairies can choose how they look, but a queen's a queen, isn't it? It's more like a species than a gender, and whatever illusion he's wearing won't change what's underneath that. I doubt they even have gender like we do anyway."

"Royalty's all about lineage, too," Clyde said in agreement. "Makes sense that he leapt at the chance to wed the Dullahan. That's a strong father, good for making heirs."

Wilson wrinkled up his nose. "Okay, Clyde, I'm gonna stop you right there. You've thought a little too deep about this. Like, weirdly deep," he said, unsettled. 

Morgan hummed. "Yeah, I'm with him on this one. That's a bizarre thing to say. I mean, I was thinkin' it... but not, like, out loud," she said.

"Shut yer face, Morgs," he said defensively. There was a short scuffle, and Wilson rolled his eyes at the childish play-fight. 

"Guys?"

Clyde cleared his throat. "Right," he said, shaking off the indignity as if only just remembering that he and Morgan weren't alone to act like children as they usually did. "Look, James, I don't know what t'tell ya. We don't know if Fell can have a baby or not. If he can, there's a good chance he's always on the prowl for a host family. If he can't... then we're none the wiser about what the hell he wants from your mates over there."

"Keep your eyes peeled, James," Morgan added seriously. "Look out for warning signs. Fairies never lie, remember that, but they play with their words. They'll always do what they say they'll do... but that may not mean they'll do what you expect."

"But what do I do, if he is planning on having a - a thingy?" he said desperately. "Fairy monster baby, whatever it's called."

"A changeling," Clyde said dryly. "This ain't a joke, pal."

"I'm not joking. I'm fucking scared, all right?" he shot back in agitation. "If this is all supposed to happen without anyone noticing, how can I stop it? What happens to the changeling if it doesn't have a home?"

"What does that matter?" he said, confused.

"It's not the changeling’s fault. It didn't get to choose its parents. No one does," he said, compassion shining through for a baby that not only didn't exist, but wasn't even human. "What if it can't survive without human care?"

"Then it'll die."

"That's not good enough!" he said, slamming his hand impulsively against the steering wheel. "You two may not care what happens to it, but that thing, whatever it is, will be _innocent_ in all this. I'm not about to forget my morals just because it isn't human."

Morgan let out a long sigh. "Fine. If you care that much, then the best thing to do is just make sure the changeling is never born at all," she reasoned. From her tone, he guessed she was siding with Clyde on this one, but just wasn't admitting it. "It'll be tough. I don't know how you're gonna do it, but that's your problem. You might just have to cockblock the hell out of AJ."

Wilson's eyebrows quirked up in surprise. "Hm. That's not gonna work, not unless I move in with them," he said with a snort of derision. "I can't keep track of them 24/7."

"AJ ain't the problem here. It's Fell that'll want the changeling in the first place. He's the one who needs to expand his court," Clyde pointed out, formulating his thoughts as he went. "So... AJ might be the key to all this, eh? If he sabotages the whole thing from within, the changeling never gets conceived and the human baby's safe."

"He's the weak link," Wilson said, the idea dawning on him like a revelation. 

"Woah, woah! You have to make sure he doesn't find out that ya know, James," Morgan reminded him. "We don't know a damn thing about what he wants. He might like being Fell's husband. If I were the Dullahan and some clever-clogs fairy queen came along and managed to pull a fast one on me, well... I'd just say fair play to him."

"Careful who hears ya say things like that," Clyde said, audibly cringing.

"My point is," she continued sternly, "Maybe he does want to rebel, but maybe - worst case scenario - all he's interested in is staying on his husband's good side. I bet he'd sell us down the river as soon as he caught a whiff of anything suspicious."

"Maybe you're right, Morgan," Wilson finally cut in again. "But I think I've got a plan. If Anthony's the way we can untangle this whole mess, then there's only one thing to do. We'll solve this problem the English way."

He could almost hear the baffled glance Clyde and Morgan shared. "Uh... what's the English way?" Morgan asked.

"In the pub, over a pint," he said decisively.


	4. God Save The Queen

Wilson knew that the first Wednesday night of the month in AZ Fell's was dedicated to stock takes, accounts, filing and reshelving. In fact, everyone who followed Crowley's twitter knew that, because he'd complain about it every month like clockwork. 

_BORED #MonthlyInventoryNight_

_Who knew books were so high maintenance? More high maintenance than ME_

_Day 60 of the monthly Wednesday night inventory... Husband still ignoring me. Claims I'm being melodramatic. Science on these claims has not come back yet._

_He won't even let me open any wine without him, and they say I'M the mean one_

_There isn't even a bloody TV set in this shop. How am I supposed to binge Doctor Who now? I’m already like, 40 years behind_

_Fuck this I'm going to bed_

It was the same, every month. He'd bitch about the routine for at least an hour, often more, on social media before giving in and going to sleep. Before the whole mob boss thing had kicked off, Wilson used to find it quite amusing. He still did, only now he just felt a bit bad about laughing at at the antics of a potential murderer. He hadn't unfollowed Crowley's account though, and he kept a watchful eye on it on that fateful night. The first tweet came in, just like normal:

_This Month On: watch a man lose the will to live in real time... my husband has decided to add three more items to his to-do list. Strap in for a long night, people. #MonthlyInventoryNight_

Wilson picked up his phone, quickly typing out a response: _@ajcrowley Mate, you do this every month. Fancy a pint this time instead?_

He waited, stomach churning as he waited for a response. He'd just put his phone down in dismay when it buzzed again, a notification appearing on his lock-screen. _@wilsonthevolleyball You're on. Meet at the Black Horse in 20 minutes._

Wilson had to wonder if that was a coincidence. _The Black Horse?_ It certainly seemed like a place where the Dullahan might feel at home. He donned a jacket, picked up his wallet and headed out the door. It was only a short walk away. That was probably a good thing. He didn't know what would happen to a person who intentionally took a ride in the Cóiste Bodhar, whose sole purpose was to take souls into the afterlife. Clara had managed it and come out the other side seemingly okay, but Mr Fell had a soft spot for her. Crowley, too. They'd be willing to bend the rules for her, perhaps, but for a nosey police officer like him? Best not to risk it. 

The Black Horse was a throwback to another time. The walls were bare brick, with an open fire crackling under a sagging wooden fireplace against one wall. It was one room, broken up by beams and struts which kept the roof standing (just), though the odd bit of plaster flaked off the ceiling and onto the plush upholstered chairs stationed around the wobbly tables. Oil paintings hung around the walls, depicting bleak, frigid scenes of the English countryside after a fruitful day's fox hunt. A black-and-white photograph of a black mare stood proud over the mantelpiece. He spotted Crowley slouched in a corner, scrolling through his phone. 

Crowley looked up as he approached. "Hi," he replied, putting away his phone and sitting up slightly. "Sit down, I've already ordered us a pint each."

"Oh, thanks," he said, sitting. 

"Just take it as thanks for getting me out of the shop," he said, smiling at the bartender who brought over their drinks. "But you're buying the next round, police boy."

"Don't worry, I brought my wallet," he said, holding up his hands in surrender. He took a gulp from his beer. "So... godfathers, huh?"

"Hm? Oh, for Clara and Laura's baby. Yeah, bit of a surprise, but I don't mind it," he said with a shrug. "Wouldn't be my first godchild."

Wilson's heart lurched. "It isn't?" he said, as it occurred to him that maybe he and Fell already had a changeling hidden with some other family. 

"Nope," he replied airily, picking up his glass.

"Are you a father?" he asked impulsively. He had to know, and Morgan said that fairies never lie. It was a direct question, leaving nowhere to hide behind wordplay. 

Crowley choked on his beer. He put it down, wiping his mouth and fixing him with a baffled frown over the table. "What? Where did that come from?"

He shrugged innocently. "Since we're talking about family, just thought I'd ask."

"Well, no. I'm not," he said uncomfortably. "I've only ever looked after other people's children. Never had my own."

"I don't blame you. Kind of daunting, isn't it?" he said immediately, hoping he'd agree with him. Crowley only gave a noncommittal shrug, prompting him to press harder on that nerve. "You don't strike me as the kind of guy who would want a gaggle of children running around all the time anyway."

"Depends what they're like, I guess. They're all different," he said, clearly a bit perturbed. "Look, where's all this come from? You aren't about to tell me you've gone and got some poor girl pregnant and now you don't know what to do, are you?"

"Er - what - no!" he said, squirming in his chair and avoiding eye contact. "I just - got thinking about it, that's all. I've never been a godfather before."

He hummed, clearly unconvinced. "Right. That's good then," he said, taking another long drink from his glass. "Don't worry about the baby. Clara and Laura will do most of the work. You just have to show up now and then with some decent presents, follow their parents' lead, babysit now and then, all that stuff. It's a doddle. You'll see."

He nodded, guiltily realising that he hadn't given a lot of thought to Carlton's baby, what with all the thoughts of fairies and mob bosses running amuck in his head. He made a mental note to buy a gift for them, once he'd made sure they were safe. First, though, he had to make sure they wouldn't end up with a changeling in their cot instead. 

"You know, I always thought you and Aziraphale would have had children before those two," he said idly. "Does he not want any?"

Crowley drew a blank. "Uh..." he said, having never thought about it before. "... maybe? We've never really talked about having our own."

"You're not worried that Laura's baby might make him a bit - I don't know - broody?" he tried. 

He glazed over a moment, considering it. Aziraphale had never been that way over baby Warlock... but then, they hadn't been a couple back then. Who knows what he might have said if they were? Had he been... broody, for those eleven years? He definitely thought babies were cute, and sweet, and little miracles and all that jazz, but did he actually want one of his own? Was it even possible for an angel and a demon to... do that? Crowley’s stomach twisted uncomfortably. That question carried a lot of weighty implications that were all far, far too frightening for a dreary Wednesday night. 

"Uh, Anthony?" Wilson said, waving his hand in front of his face. "Wake up, mate. Earth calling."

He shook himself. "Uh - w - right. Yeah. Let's change the subject," he said quickly, draining the rest of his pint in one go. Wilson smirked internally. He'd chalk that up as a win; clearly, Anthony was, at very least, on the fence about the idea of a changeling, and Aziraphale hadn’t asked for one yet. There was still hope. 

"Another drink?" Wilson offered, finally buoyed up after many days of fearfulness.

"Please," he said in relief. 

Once their glasses were refilled, then emptied, then refilled a few more times, they began to loosen up. The Black Horse suddenly didn’t seem so ramshackle anymore, its rough edges shifting into charming details as the alcohol convinced them that it was all very cosy and welcoming. Wilson found himself struggling to remember why he'd been so tense in the first place. Anthony was a good bloke, after all. What was he worried about? 

"Y'know," he slurred, leaning forward onto the table, letting it take his weight as the world rocked around him. "You're all right, y'are. Even if you're a... thing."

Crowley, who wasn't quite as drunk as him but was definitely heading that way, quirked a brow in amusement. "A thing?" he said.

"Mhm. Fairy. Dulla-whotsit," he said, eyes half closed. His verbal filter had definitely clocked out for the night. "The 'orseman."

That got his attention. "Dullahan, you mean?" he said, his eyes coming sharply into focus. He sobered up slightly, and Wilson nodded along, too drunk to notice the pint glass on the table refilling itself. Crowley leaned forward, watching his face carefully, dropping his voice into a low, inquisitive murmur. "Now how on Earth do you know about that...?"

He chuckled blearily. "Not s'posed to tell you that. S'a secret," he said, holding a finger to his lips. "I feel bad for you, though... got tricked, didn't you? S'not your fault you married the - the, um, fairy queen. Oooh, he’s frightening, he is.”

“Who, Aziraphale?” he said incredulously.

Wilson held out his hands, furiously shushing him and looking around the room as if they were being watched. “Careful. Don’t want ‘im to hear,” he said. “I don’t want to get you in trouble. Who knows what he’d make you do..? Make - make a - er - little mini Azir- zur- afful. Don’t want that. S’hard to say...”

Crowley rubbed his temples, wondering if he really had gotten all the alcohol out of his system or not. “I have no idea what you’re on about,” he said. 

“Heh. Me too,” he replied jovially. “I dunno what’s goin’ on half the time anymore. I mean... fairies. I know _you’re_ a fairy, so... so you don’t get it, but like, imagine if... if you found out that angels were real or somethin’. Somethin’ you’d never thought was a thing. Get it?”

“No,” he replied dryly. “You really need to start telling me who told you about this.”

Wilson snorted. “Yeah right.”

"Listen... If you tell me how you know all this, I'll buy you another drink," he bargained, spreading his palms. Wilson mulled that over for a moment.

"Yeeeeeah okay," he said, grinning. That seemed like a good deal. "It was Clyde and Morgan."

"The Murphys? How the bloody heaven did you manage to get in touch with them?" he said, eyebrows shooting up. Wilson didn't respond. He was too busy staring forlornly into the bottom of his empty glass, and Crowley suspected that he'd lost him less than halfway through that sentence. With a sigh, he raised a hand, calling over the bartender. 

"Ah, forget it. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em," he muttered, and began working on getting himself drunk again. Anything was better than walking back into the monthly inventory...

Wilson woke up to the sound of a buzzing lightbulb. A low, pained groan escaped his throat, his head pounding immediately. It took a moment for all his senses to return to him. Wherever he was, the air held a distinct, impersonal scent of cleaning fluids and the musk of sweat and day-old alcohol. Moving slowly, he began to push himself up, his limbs wooden and stiff. He cracked open his eyes.

He hissed in pain. His vision whited out for a moment, spreading a fresh wave of pain through his head before his eyes half-heartedly began to adjust. "What the...?" he muttered, taking in his surroundings. Bars surrounded him on three sides, with a concrete wall on the other. 

A low chuckle from the next cell over drew his attention. "Funny being on this side of the bars for once, eh?" 

He turned, gripping his head as the movement set off another burst of pain. "Anthony?" he croaked, recognising the whip-thin frame lounging on the bed behind the bars dividing their cells. He squinted, trying to remember getting here... "What the hell happened last night?"

"Well," he began, seemingly completely clear-headed, "We had a few pints at the Black Horse, and then decided to go on a pub crawl. Pretty sure we went to The Snake and Swan, the Drunken Duck and we ended up in the Queen's Arms at just gone midnight."

"Right," he said, cradling his head and trying to stop the room from spinning. "Doesn't sound like we got very far..."

He laughed. "No, not really. You started a fight in the Queen's Arms," he said, highly amused as Wilson let out another long groan. "It was almost impressive, actually. The bloke was twice your size, with biceps bigger than my head."

Wilson touched a hand to his lip, finding an angry, aching cut there. "That'd explain the split lip," he muttered.

"No, you got that when you knocked yourself out on the bar. The police had to scrape you off the floor when they arrived," he said, getting up to saunter across and lean on the bars. "The bloody nose is from the fight."

Now he mentioned it, Wilson noticed the crust clinging to his upper lip. At the time, his nose had been broken, but Crowley had fixed it. He'd been in quite a state himself, but healing miracles were surprisingly easy to pull off while drunk. "So... did I win?" he said, looking up at him hopefully.

Crowley pulled a thoughtful face. "Sort of," he said. "You distracted him, and I glassed him from behind."

"Hardly seems fair," he joked. 

"I don't fight fair," he replied with a wry smile. He paused, watching Wilson rub his temples, trying to banish his hangover. "So you really don't remember anything from last night?"

"Nothing."

"Hm," he said, nodding. Good. That meant he didn't remember letting slip that he knew about Crowley's little Dullahan gag... "Any idea when we get let out of here, by the way? Never been arrested for being drunk and disorderly before."

"When someone comes to pick us up, I imagine," he guessed. He'd been in this position once or twice in his youth, but had been lucky to never get charged with anything. He hoped this wouldn't be the one time he didn't get away with it. 

"Shit. Probably won't be able to just sneak home like nothing happened, then," he said, sucking in a deep breath through is teeth. "Aziraphale's not going to be very happy with me."

Wilson hummed vaguely, spotting the door silently unlatch itself behind Crowley, as if on cue. The demon kept talking, oblivious to the man walking into the room behind him. Wilson blanched.

"I know _why_ he'll be angry, but it's not like he's a saint when it comes to alcohol either. I've seen him knock back three bottles of wine and break open a beehive with a table leg before now, so he can't exactly take the moral high ground, can he?" Crowley said, recalling that memorable evening with amusement. Aziraphale had a drunken craving for honey, and the only regret Crowley had about that night was that photography hadn't been invented yet. "James? Police boy? Are you listening?"

He snapped his fingers in front of him. Wilson didn't really respond, but kept looking just over Crowley's shoulder, like an outsider at a tense family reunion. Realisation hit Crowley like a train. "Ah. He's behind me, isn't he?" he said, hanging his head slightly. Wilson nodded. Crowley quickly pivoted on his heel, spreading his arms wide and putting on his most devilishly charming smile. "Angel!" 

Aziraphale stood just outside the cell, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. "Don't you _angel_ me," he said sourly, and Crowley cringed slightly, his arms dropping. Wilson wished he could pass out again. "Imagine my surprise when I get a phone call at seven o'clock in the morning, telling my that my own husband has gone and gotten himself arrested for hooliganism!"

Crowley spluttered. "B - bu - wu - " he said, then jabbed a finger in Wilson's direction. "He started it!"

Wilson sat suddenly bolt upright. "Hey!" he cried, unable to formulate a more solid defence under the twin weight of his hangover coupled with Mr Fell's judgemental stare. He looked away, heart jumping, wondering if he'd take Crowley's accusation seriously. 

"That's as may be, but you still ought to have known better," Aziraphale said. "I mean, a bar fight! Really! You're lucky I've already been to smooth things over with the gentleman in question, even if he was slightly... uncouth."

"Thanks," Wilson muttered, rubbing his eyes as an excuse not to make eye contact. It suddenly occurred to him that he'd have to come clean to Clyde and Morgan about the outcome of his brilliant plan. 

Aziraphale arranged for both of them to be released, with no charges, though that was the last of Wilson's worries at that point. Crowley was all but grovelling as they made their way out into the street, dancing around his husband as they began the walk back to the bookshop. Wilson absent-mindedly followed them. His flat was in that direction anyway, and he needed something to show for the night's exertions. Luckily (or rather, miraculously), his hangover seemed to be fading already, so the sunshine cutting through the clouds only stung his eyes a little. 

"So... any plans for today? Angel?" Crowley said sheepishly, watching his husband's deadpan face closely. "Lunch, maybe?"

"You're not getting out of this by offering me food, Crowley," he replied firmly, his hands folded behind his back. Crowley scowled, cursing under his breath, quickly rethinking his strategy. 

"... wine?"

"Or alcohol," he added, shooting him a dry glance from the corner of his eye. "I think you've had quite enough of that for now, don't you?"

His shoulders sagged slightly, but he gave a reluctant hum of assent. He had a point. Wilson tried to fade into the background, dodging oncoming pedestrians and idly pretending not to eavesdrop.

A sly grin crept on Crowley's face, and he leant closer to Aziraphale's ear. "Well, I suppose there is _one_ other thing I could give - "

"Don't be vulgar."

He let out a frustrated cry, drawing back and snarling skyward as if this could possibly be Her fault. Wilson stared dead ahead. _Well, he didn't say no,_ said a quiet voice in the back of his mind. He cringed. If Morgan was right, and fairies rarely announced their intentions outright... his mission to prevent the changeling being conceived may have actually made it more likely. Something twisted in his chest and all of a sudden, he couldn't imagine anything worse than facing the bitter disappointment in Morgan’s eyes. 

"Well, what can I do, then?" Crowley continued in exasperation. 

"Just... be more responsible, dear," Aziraphale replied with a sigh, his irritation finally dissolving as he got to the heart of the matter. "We'll be godfathers soon. We're going to have to set an example, and I'd hate to see a repeat of - well, you know... the swap fiasco."

He sucked in a breath through gritted teeth. "Fair point," he admitted. Wilson shot them a quizzical glance, his heart dropping to the floor. _The swap? What swap? Crowley said he hadn't had any changelings before!_ "Won't happen again, angel. Promise."

"Thank you," he replied, a familiar warm smile finally finding his face again. He reached over, grasping his hand. "Now we've got that cleared up, I think a nice long bath is in order when we get home, don't you?" 

"Whatever you like, angel," he said gratefully.

Wilson paused as they reached a street corner, clearing his throat awkwardly. His stomach churned. They both turned to look at him, sheepishly remembering that they hadn't been alone on their walk. "Uh... this is my street," he said, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. "So... I'd best be off."

"Yes, of course, do enjoy your afternoon," Aziraphale said brightly. 

Wilson smiled, and made a start in the other direction. He took one glance over his shoulder before he reached his door, spotting the two fae still stood in the same place on the path, with Crowley leaning down to whisper something in his husband's ear. Heart lurching, he quickly looked away. His memory had completely blacked out from the night before, and he had the horrible feeling that he'd told Crowley something he shouldn't have done. 

Morgan didn't hear anything from Wilson for days. He'd sent them a text, briefly explaining that the night out hadn't help at all, but had ignored all her texts asking what went wrong. It was playing on her mind... James wasn't so bad really, for a born-and-bred Londoner. He had his wits about him, and he didn't cower at the mere sight of Clyde like most guys did. She'd always been glad to have her brother around to keep the sleazebags at bay, so she'd been surprised to find herself unbothered by James's indifference to him. She wondered if he'd come to his senses, and reported them to his boss. He'd get a good career boost from handing over the infamous Murphy siblings, after all. Either that, or... the Dullahan had done something to him. Her blood ran cold at the very thought. 

She crawled out of bed just before dawn, like usual. Clyde's snores seeped out from his room and she passed by his bedroom door, rolling her eyes as she went. She probably wouldn't be seeing him until ten o'clock, at the earliest. He wasn't such a fan of quiet mornings, not like her. She'd gotten into the habit of rising before the sun when she'd first moved to London as a child, and the only time that the city seemed to fall silent for a moment was in the small hours of the morning. The silence was the one thing she missed about Ireland. The remote cottage they'd lived in when she was a girl was long faded in her memory, but their current home was something like it. 

The kitchen tiles were cold against her bare feet. She made herself a coffee, breathing in the steam as she pushed open the shutters on the kitchen window with her free hand. The world outside was a perfect grey canvas, with the sky paling slightly as the first hint of light began to curl its fingers around the horizon. The garden path wound its way down the lawn, right up to the garden gate, leading her eye to finally land on the black shape sitting just across the road.

Her mug shattered in the sink. Shards of porcelain scattered in all directions, the coffee releasing a fragrant tang into the air that was no longer relaxing. Her shaking hand was suspended in the air, as if it was still holding the cup. "Fuck," she whispered hoarsely, unable to move her eyes away from the familiar black Bentley on the street outside. 

As if he'd heard her, the driver's side door popped open. Crowley sauntered around the bonnet to the other side, opening the door and offering his hand as Mr Fell emerged from the car. Morgan swallowed hard, scanning his face. It was hard to tell from this distance, but if she didn't know any better... He looked angry. 

Aziraphale wasn't _angry_ , per se. Exasperated, perhaps. Irked. Mildly irritable. As Crowley had put it, however, he was royally pissed off, with a big capital R. The fairy story had been a good way to keep the Murphy siblings out of trouble and, more importantly, out of their city, but the last thing he'd wanted was for that little white lie to start spilling over into other people's lives. When Crowley had told him that Wilson had gotten tangled up in all this, well... He'd been quick to suggest that they pay their ex-mafia acquaintances a little visit.

"You sure this is a good idea, angel?" Crowley asked, ducking his head slightly as he followed him toward the cottage.

The garden gate squeaked as Aziraphale opened it. "Quite sure," he said primly, stepping onto the path. There was a flicker of movement in the kitchen window. "If it's a fairy queen they want, then it's a fairy queen they'll get."

He nodded slightly, sending a small glance back to the car. Aziraphale certainly had a flair for the dramatic. He'd laid out the scene very intentionally: the fearsome Cóiste Bodhar, lying in wait, patiently... They'd crossed a line, and now Aziraphale had no qualms about giving them a little fright, intentionally this time. Whatever had gone on, it ended today. Crowley, despite his misgivings, felt a childish giddiness building up inside him. His angel, scaring people? He hadn't seen him do that since... well, not since the 1950s. He couldn't wait. 

Morgan answered the door the instant Aziraphale knocked on it. She'd clearly been waiting. "H - Hello, sir," she said, meeting his eyes only for an instant before fixing them on her toes. 

Aziraphale gave his sourest polite smile. "Hello. This isn't a social call, I'm afraid," he said. "Do fetch your brother. We have plenty to discuss."

Five minutes later, Morgan and Clyde sat rigidly on the sofa across from Crowley and Aziraphale, in tense silence as the angel took an unhurried sip from the tea they'd provided. He hummed slightly, seemingly satisfied with it, before focusing on them again. "Now," he said, resting the cup on his knee. A sour note curdled his usually comforting voice. "A little birdie tells me that you two have been awfully loose-lipped as of late..."

"How so..?" Clyde asked, his voice still gruff with sleep and strained by nerves. 

"My, forgotten already, have you?" he said dryly. He arched a brow. "Because you've made quite the impression on young Mr Wilson."

Morgan blanched, grasping Clyde's wrist tightly to anchor herself to the room. "Is - Is he okay?"

"Luckily for you, he's fine," Crowley spoke up, idly draped over the armrest, casting a judgemental eye over the flower arrangement on the side table. He reached over, lightly brushing his fingertips over the velvety petals of a rose. In an instant, it withered into a dry, brown husk, its stem snapping and scattering flakes of dead matter onto the table. Crowley eyed it dispassionately. "Whoops."

Clyde's heart skipped a beat. He'd been threatened before, by men far larger and broader than Crowley... but mob tactics had nothing on the Dullahan. "We never meant him any harm," he said. His eyes flicked desperately between the two fae.

"Good for you. Now, on to the matter at hand," Aziraphale said firmly, a frown just beginning to crease his brow. "Would you like to explain to me precisely how you came to know Mr Wilson, and why on _Earth_ you told him anything without even deigning to consult me first?"

"He came to us first. It wasn't our fault!" Clyde said, ignoring Morgan as she sharply struck him on the arm, mortified. 

"Clyde - !"

"What? We have to tell him, Morgs," he retorted under his breath, forcing her to clamp her mouth shut again. She knew as well as he did that they couldn't afford to lie to a fae queen. He turned back to Aziraphale, who kept relentless eye contact. If Clyde didn't know any better, he could have sworn that those blue eyes were slightly luminous in the half-lit living room. "If - If we come clean, sir, would ya forgive us...?"

He took a long sip of his tea. "I'll consider it."

Taking a deep breath, knowing that was as good as it was going to get, Clyde began to tell the story. Morgan chipped in now and then, trying to soften the truth where she could. She still held out the hope that all three of them could make it to the other side of this unscathed... Clyde was more worried about just the two of them. _Blood is thicker than water;_ he had that tattooed in hazy typewriter font down his forearm. He lived by that. He'd die by it, too, and Morgan was all he had left. He didn't hold anything back as he explained everything they'd done and thought and said, right from the moment Wilson had first arrived outside their cottage. Aziraphale listened, sliding between surprise, exasperation and outright horror at some points, while Crowley remained expressionless, still slouched back against the armrest. 

"You think I would ever harm my own godchild?" Aziraphale exclaimed finally, drawing himself up in indignation, unable to silence himself any longer. "Or _any_ child, for that matter?"

"Well - well, we just - " Morgan stammered. "It seemed to make sense at the time!"

"That's quite enough!" Aziraphale snapped. Crowley raised his brows in surprise. The angel set his teacup down harshly, the rattling china making both siblings jump. "I've never heard such utter tosh in all my life, and I've walked this earth since the dust had barely begun to stand up and call itself human. To think, after all I've done to protect you, here you are throwing around these preposterous accusations behind my back, sullying our good name! How very _dare_ you."

They shrunk back, trying desperately to convince the sofa to swallow them whole. They kept a mutual death grip on one another's hands, hearts hammering to an irregular beat. "Please, sir... we didn't mean to be ungrateful," Clyde said breathlessly, trying to surreptitiously impose himself between the fairy queen and his sister. 

He clucked his tongue, rolling his eyes and sharing an incredulous glance with his husband. A silent conversation passed between the two entities, ending with a noncommittal shrug from the demon. "It's your call, your majesty," he said with a broad, teasing grin. 

He gave a small huff. "Quite," he said. He cast a calculating stare over the two humans, tilting his head slightly. He sighed. "Oh, what am I going to do with you two...?"

He'd said it in the manner of an exasperated parent. Clyde blinked in surprise. He shared a glance with his sister, as if trying to confirm that they'd both heard the same thing. Their attention was sharply drawn back to the queen as he stood up, tugging his waistcoat straight, clearly about to leave. Morgan tensed up. "Sir?"

He looked down at her. "What is it now?"

"You, erm... didn't say anythin'. About what's going to happen to us," she said, with a paranoid glance toward Crowley. He smiled brightly, giving her a sarcastic little wave. She paled, and turned a pleading gaze onto Aziraphale. 

"Nothing, for the moment," he replied, tugging idly at his bow tie. He fixed them with a reproachful look. "I shall have to get back to you once I've cleared up the mess you've made."

Clyde hung his head. "We understand."

"Very good. Come along, Crowley. We're leaving," he said, beckoning his husband along as he strode toward the front door. The demon rolled his eyes as he dragged himself back to his feet. 

_All this queen business is starting to go his head,_ he thought to himself, trailing after him, his eyes dragging down his corporation appreciatively, as if only just now noticing his perfect posture, proud and meticulously maintained appearance, and that little-seen sense of authority he could carry with him when he really wanted to. Perhaps Aziraphale did have a certain regal quality about him after all. _Well... on second thought, maybe that isn't such a bad thing..._ Crowley thought with a smirk. 

Clyde sloped after them, seeing them out the door. He lingered by the doorframe. Dawn set the horizon alight in a long strip of fire across the sky, painting the Bentley in panels of orange and yellow against the black and chrome. Crowley held the door open for Aziraphale again, making a little show of bowing to him as he did. The angel tutted fondly as he got inside. Before Crowley made his way to the other side of the car, he shot one final glance back at the ashen-faced Irishman by the door. He paused, as if weighing up the chances that his husband could be watching.

 _You'll be fine,_ Crowley mouthed, making a dismissive gesture as he sauntered around the bonnet. Clyde raised his eyebrows, a flicker of optimism returning to his eyes. 

The Bentley quickly shook off the tranquility of the morning, releasing a guttural engine-growl and coughing sulphurous fumes from the exhaust. It rolled smoothly into the road, and soon left the quaint hamlet behind them. Aziraphale stared pensively out the window, his lips pressed into a thin line. He finally turned, taking a breath as if to say something, before shaking his head and giving up. Crowley cocked a brow.

"What?" he said, one hand on the steering wheel. Aziraphale shook his head, muttering something avoidant under his breath. "Come on, angel, just tell me."

He fidgeted for a moment, giving him a doe-eyed stare that never failed to make him go all gooey. "You... you don't think I was too cruel back there, do you? With this whole Queen business?" he said self-consciously. "I was just so terribly annoyed with myself. This - This little... convenient fiction of ours has gotten completely out of hand."

He shrugged. "S'pose," he admitted. He stared thoughtfully at the twisting road, taking each corner without slowing down. "I don't think you were cruel, though. Cruelty's for demons. Besides, you were annoyed for a reason... divine wrath and all that."

"Oh, oh thank you," he said, a relieved smile lifting his expression. He nodded to himself, settling back in his seat with a relaxed sigh. "That really was bothering me."

He hummed. "S'alright," he replied, shifting gears and driving onward in silence. He began to tap idly on the steering wheel and, in the moments where the engine noise dropped to a mere purr, Aziraphale noticed that Crowley had begun to sing something just under his breath.

"God save our graaa-cious Queen, God save our nooo-ble Queen," he sang. "God save the Queen. Send her victooor-ious, happy and glooor-ious, long to reign over us - " 

Aziraphale turned sharply with an affronted gasp. "Oh, you - you- !" he said, unable to find an insult that fully grasped his indignation. He gave up, crossing his arms with a sullen pout. Crowley broke off with a cackle, shooting him a mischievous grin. Aziraphale huffed. "I just got carried away!"


	5. James

Wilson's eyes were burning. He'd been trying to dig through all the information he could find about the Irish fae, the Dullahan, fairy courts, changelings... There was just too much. Local tales never seemed to see eye to eye on the details, and somehow he doubted Wikipedia was the font of all knowledge on the supernatural. Still, he found details now and then, on page 12 of his google search, that seemed to match what he knew.

_Fairy Queens are notoriously devious. Often appearing as supernaturally beautiful, they have been known to tempt passing humans into conversation. Entranced by her beauty, they invariably make the mistake of telling her their name, at which point they are at her mercy. Often, such a human will become an unwitting groom for the Queen..._

He nodded vaguely. Interesting, but he knew this already. He scrolled down further, skimming the unformatted block of text. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He wrestled it out with one hand, glancing down at the caller ID; it was Morgan. He cringed, and put it face-down beside his laptop. He'd call her back later. If nothing else, he could claim that it was far too early for him to have been awake anyway. Nevermind that he hadn't slept at all last night. Shaking his head, which buzzed strangely with the motion, he refocused on the screen. There was a section here on changelings, too. 

_Changelings are the offspring of the fae. They are transplanted into the homes of humans, and the existing child disposed of accordingly, for largely unknown reasons. While some sources suggest that deformed children are in fact changelings, this is likely untrue, and was used as a mere historical excuse to callously abandon or disown such children. In reality, true changelings are indistinguishable from human babies._

The phone began buzzing again. He checked it, and slammed it back down as soon as he read the name. It was Clyde this time. He grumbled, scrolling faster to find the Dullahan section of the webpage. This site was just paraphrasing everything he already knew - he needed something extra, dammit! 

_The Dullahan; a dreaded omen of death and destruction. Most sightings do not -_

His eyes broke away from the screen as the phone buzzed again. He frowned at it, and he could have sworn that it was getting louder. Then again, maybe that was just the sleep deprivation... He sighed, rubbing a hand across his face as he deliberated whether to pick up the phone. He shook his head, going for his coffee cup only to discover it was empty. He scowled. Just as he went to roll his chair back from his desk, a voice startled him, almost making him drop the cup.

"James! Pick up the fuckin' phone!" Morgan barked over the voicemail. Wilson took a deep breath, steadying himself, gripping the edge of the desk to overcome his shock. "I don't know what happened, ya eedjit, but - but Jesus... Mr Fell, he was here. In our house!"

He sat up sharply, gawking at the phone. Morgan continued desperately. "He knows. I don't know how, but he knows we told you about him," she said. Wilson's stomach flipped. Her voice suddenly turned brittle and dropped its tinge of anger, trembling in concern. "Please... please, just don't stop looking over your shoulder. Call me back. And - and don't you dare be dead, y'hear me?"

The line went dead, and Wilson stared blankly at the black screen. He hadn't known her long, but he already knew how rare it was, to hear a tremor in that lilting accent. And that parting comment - _don't you dare be dead,_ well... it almost made him smile, if not for the terrified edge on the words. It was her last-ditch attempt at fortifying herself, holding up her old mob boss mask even as it crumbled in her hands. It was so delicate, so overused, and so ready to fall. He swallowed thickly, snatching the phone from the desk, though he only got halfway through punching in his password before a new sound made him freeze. It was the low, rumbling growl of an engine that was just beginning to idle on the street below. Perhaps it was just the paranoia from the long night, and Morgan's message, he thought, but he could have sworn it was familiar...

His phone began to buzz again. His heart leapt, and he didn't even bother looking at the screen before he tapped ACCEPT and held it to his ear. "Morgan, hey, listen - "

"It's not Morgan," Crowley interrupted with a disinterested drawl. Wilson blanched, his whole body going cold to his core. "Expecting a call from her, were you?"

"I - I don't - "

"Don't bother. We aren't angry. We just want to talk," he said evenly. Wilson's every instinct screamed LIAR at the top of their lungs... only, fairies didn't lie, did they? "I'm outside your flat in the Bentley. You'd better come with me, and we can all sort this mess out like grown-ups."

Wilson took hold of the curtain, moving it gently to one side. Sure enough, the Cóiste Bodhar sat innocuously in the street, as naturally as a king on a chess board. It was the queen that worried him more, though. Even so, if Crowley said they weren't angry, then there had to be more to this than he thought. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, he nodded.

"I'll be right down," he said, trying to appear dauntless. Inside, his stomach burned and writhed. Morgan's voice chimed in from within his skull: _Don't you dare die, James. Don't you dare._

Aziraphale couldn't sit still, constantly moving back and forth around the shop to rearrange the books. He'd made Crowley drop him off before he went to fetch Wilson. He didn't want to frighten the poor boy, and since the dreaded fairy queen seemed to be the focus of his anxieties, he thought it was best to stay put at home and wait for him to arrive. As he fussed over the arrangement of clutter in the back room, he mused on what Crowley had told him about the night he'd gone out drinking. All the things Wilson had said...

He'd thought Crowley had been tricked - fooled, into marrying him! Aziraphale was quite stung by that implication. Did he really think Crowley didn't love him? Or that Aziraphale would have it in his mind to force marriage upon anyone, much less the demon he held so close to his heart? He only noticed how irritated it made him when he slammed down an anthology of Shakespeare so hard it shook the table. He blinked, surprised with himself. He shook his head to clear it, and tried not to think of the other thing Wilson had said (or tried to, in his drunken state); that he might force Crowley to, as Wilson put it, "make little mini-Aziraphales". _Force._ It made him physically ill to even consider such a thing, and his blood boiled to think that anyone could ever believe him capable of it. 

He came to again when his teacup shattered in his tightening fist, spilling lukewarm tea everywhere. He huffed, muttering at himself to get a grip, and snapped his fingers. The cup returned to pristine shape, full of fully reheated earl grey, which he quickly took a long sip of. He was going to need it if he was going to keep a level head, even in spite of all these utterly revolting rumours that had cropped up while he wasn't looking. As if on cue, the shop's bell jingled, and the familiar rhythm of Crowley's footfalls crossed the floorboards. Wilson's footsteps trailed closely behind.

He settled on the sofa, waiting for them to appear in the doorframe. "Mr Wilson," he said warmly, and a little fatigued already, as he arrived. "Please, take a seat. Have some tea."

He hesitantly approached the sofa, glancing around the room as if he expected an attack from any shadowy corner. "I'll pass on the tea," he said, sitting across from him and raising his chin defiantly. Crowley took a place next to his husband. "I hear I'm not supposed to take food or drink from your kind."

Aziraphale sighed, resting his cup on its saucer. "My dear lad," he said gently, fixing him with a chiding stare. "I think this silly little charade has gone on long enough, don't you?"

Wilson blanked. His heart jumped, and the world seemed to slip from under his feet for just an instant. "What do you mean?" he asked sharply. He felt keenly aware that there was something he'd missed along the line, something that should have been obvious... for a detective, the feeling was complete anathema.

"You may take the food, and the tea, and whatever else I offer, with no fear whatsoever," he said slowly, gesturing at the laden tea tray on the table. "Because I am not a fairy."

Wilson stared, confusion tugging his brows together. He scanned Aziraphale's face for any sign of a mocking smirk or hint of dishonesty... "What?" he said dumbly, shooting a glance toward Crowley too. 

"You heard. We aren't fairies," Crowley reiterated. "I'm not the Dullahan, he's not a queen. Well, not in the way you're thinking of, at least."

"Then - then what are you?" he said, gripping the arms of the chair. A cold knot formed in his belly, tight with dread and uncertainty. "Don't try telling me you're human. I saw you shapeshift, I know that's not true."

Crowley wrinkled his nose. "Right. That's why you were acting weird that day," he muttered, sharing a slightly embarrassed glance with Aziraphale. With a sigh, he slid his glasses off his face, throwing them aside. He levelled a yellow stare at him. "All right, you got us. We aren't human."

His eyes trapped Wilson, seemingly in a trance. It took a long moment before Aziraphale felt ready to stir him. "We never meant for you to get tangled up in this fairy business, you know. It was just - just a convenient fiction. It keeps the Murphys at arm's length," he explained, sipping his tea nervously. "I was rather hoping they'd reform themselves completely. Start a new life, away from all the - well, the crime, I suppose."

"They have reformed," he said sharply, feeling a flare of defensiveness over his unlikely friends. "But they're terrified. They're out there living with a black cloud hanging over them, thinking you're about to knock on their door at any moment and drag them off into some weird fairy dimension!"

Aziraphale flinched. "That was never my intention!" he protested. Crowley put a comforting hand on his knee. 

"So?" he cried, spreading his palms. "Don't you think you should tell them that you're not what you say you are?"

"No," Crowley said firmly, holding up a finger. "The minute we tell them what's going on, they'll come right back to London and pick up where they left off."

"You don't know that!"

"What, and you do? Can you guarantee they won't?" he shot back. Wilson fell silent, biting back a sharp retort. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

There was a tense moment of silence before Wilson gave a reluctant grunt, accepting defeat. He slumped in his chair, staring sullen and pale-faced toward the floor. He didn't have the presence of mind to press for answers. Emotions had taken over, buzzing around the issues that had been bothering him for weeks until he could hardly see them. It didn't ease them, though. Eventually, Aziraphale cleared his throat daintily.

"And besides," he said softly. "Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction."

Wilson dragged his eyes over to him. "What do you mean?"

"They'll find it easier to cope with the idea of fairies and headless horsemen than - than with what we really are," he said uneasily. He could feel Wilson's expectant stare. "Because - well, you see - I'm actually, er... I'm an angel, and Crowley here is a demon."

He cringed, watching his reaction. His face didn't change for a moment, before it finally creased with laughter. "Okay. Right," he scoffed, rolling his eyes, strangely relaxed. He shook his head. "I know you can lie now, so fine. Good one. What are you really?"

Crowley and Aziraphale looked at one another, dumbstruck. This hadn't happened before. "This isn't a joke," he said, slightly offended. He set his teacup aside. "I really am an angel. Look - !"

To illustrate his point, he sat up even straighter, and let his eyes flutter shut for a moment. As he closed his eyes, the lights in the shop dimmed in eerie unison, plunging them into greyish shadows. Wilson squinted. A soft ethereal glow was beginning to stir from somewhere just behind Aziraphale's head, like dawn light muffled by a covering of fluffy white clouds, steadily growing in intensity. The light seemed to curl around his head, as if eddies of golden dust had been caught in a cyclical breeze, while Crowley's glasses reflected the light like someone had gilded the dark glass. Aziraphale opened his eyes, and Wilson's breath abandoned him entirely. 

"Do not be afraid," the angel said calmly, his voice reverberating a thousand times in the darkened shop. His eyes burned with the same heavenly light as his halo, as if it was shining right the way through his head. "Do you believe me now, Mr Wilson?"

He nodded quickly, goosebumps covering every inch of his skin. Satisfied, Aziraphale took a deep breath, closing his eyes again as the halo faded. The lights in the shop returned to full brightness, and the world suddenly seemed real again. No matter how distant the memory already seemed, the image of the angel would stay burned into his mind forever. 

"Ready to listen now?" Crowley asked him, surprisingly gently. 

Wilson swallowed thickly, looking between the two of them with new respect, new trepidation, new curiosity... "Yeah. Think so," he said hoarsely. 

Aziraphale smiled softly. "Well, then let's start at the Beginning, shall we?" he said. "At the _very_ Beginning, in the Garden, there was a - well, _he_ was a wily old serpent, and I was technically on apple tree duty..."

And so, the story began. It was the first time that the tale had been told to anyone who hadn't been there along the way, and the emotion was palpable. Aziraphale spared no detail, right the way through from the Garden to Golgotha, at which point Crowley interrupted, insisting that he was too long-winded. He took over from there, taking Wilson through the next millennia in under five minutes before Aziraphale complained he was being too blasé about the whole thing. From there, they fell into a shared rhythm of storytelling, weaving a tale that any author would be proud of. Wilson was enthralled. It was an epic tale; love, loss, apocalypse and rebellion, humanity and everything beyond... 

"... and that takes us up to this very moment, I believe," Aziraphale finished, very pleased with himself. It was almost noon, and Wilson had been helping himself to biscuits ever since the nausea subsided enough, sometime around Ancient Rome. "My, what a yarn we've spun. Has it really been that long?"

Crowley let out a long puff of air. "Must be," he said, looking at him. "We're old, angel. Really old."

"I suppose we are," he murmured vacantly, pouring himself more tea. "What a jolly good life we've had in the meantime, though, wouldn't you say?"

He hummed in agreement, and Wilson smiled slightly. He was close to dozing off. To think, he'd been so panicked this morning, when he'd got Crowley's call. He was glad to have finally shaken off the idea of Mr Fell, the mob boss, as well as Mr Fell, the fairy queen. He made a much better angel. Listening to his voice, now finally free of all those fears, he began to recall why he'd loved visiting the bookshop so often before he'd come to believe those rumours. It was so soft, so typically English and charmingly snooty, that Wilson's grandfather immediately came to mind. That grief, now tugging at his heartstrings again after so long being ignored in favour of work and his self-constructed heroics, was enough to drag his good mood back down into the dust. 

He deflated slightly against the armchair, smile slipping. He often wondered how his grandfather had thought of him, before he passed. He hadn't had the time to clear the air with him before he went. He'd spent his whole retirement caring for Wilson as he grew into a young man, and even beyond that... Wilson often wondered if he regretted it. He'd spent the last of his time on earth helping a boy that shouldn't have been his responsibility, not fully at least. Had he at least gotten the reward he deserved, now it was all over? Many a person had tried to reassure him that his grandfather was in a better place now, which seemed like a hollow proclamation to him... coming from a human, at least.

"Aziraphale," he spoke up, barely audibly, drawing the angel's attention. "Can you tell, if someone is in Heaven?"

He felt like a child for asking. He looked down into his teacup, taking deep breaths through his nose to force back the tears. "I can," Aziraphale replied carefully, tilting his head a little bit. "...did you have someone in mind, dear boy?"

"My grandad," he said, voice cracking. He cleared his throat firmly, raising his chin and trying to shake it off. "James Wilson Senior."

"Were you close?" Crowley asked softly, giving him a sincerely sympathetic look. Wilson nodded.

"Yeah. My parents weren't fit to raise me, so he did instead..." he said thickly, scratching his neck and looking at the far corner. He kept talking, fearful his throat might close up entirely if he stopped. "I remember he had this big armchair, in our old house, where he used to read stories to me before bed. No one had ever read to me before that. It's - er - sort of silly, looking back..."

Crowley shook his head. "It's not silly. It's human," he said. He gave his husband a small nudge. "Angel. Tell the boy his grandfather's in Heaven."

"Can you tell, too?" Wilson said in surprise. Aziraphale shut his eyes for a moment, pressing his fingers to his temples and scanning through the information he still had access to. He hadn't fallen, after all, and only God could block an angel from Heaven itself. 

"No, obviously not. I'm a demon. My connection upstairs is gone, but it's pretty bloody obvious to me he must be up there somewhere," he said stubbornly. "Right, angel?"

Aziraphale shook himself back out of a stupor, and gave a small smile. "Of course, yes," he said, nodding wisely. "Snug as a bug in his own little slice of paradise, as he deserves."

Wilson nodded, the weight shifting a little from his back. "Thanks," he said, giving a smile that was still a little weak. It was underwhelming, somehow, even if it was genuinely comforting. All the comfort in the world wouldn't bring him back, after all. Aziraphale hesitated, with his teacup still halfway to his mouth.

"If - if you like... I could show you," he offered hesitantly. Crowley raised his brows in surprise. "It would only be a quick peek, but I'm sure it would be more than enough to set your mind at rest. A little closure, perhaps..?" 

Wilson's mouth went dry. "You'd do that? For me?" he said, jaw slack. 

"Just this once, it couldn't hurt," he said indulgently, setting his teacup and saucer down on the table. He shuffled forward, holding out his palms toward him. "Now, if you would please just take my hands, and close your eyes."

Wilson shared an apprehensive glance with Crowley. The demon shrugged helplessly, leaning back on the sofa and helping himself to a biscuit. Tentatively, Wilson reached out, taking Aziraphale's hands. He let his eyelids fall. The angel squeezed his hands gently, comforting him, before a chill broke out over his skin. A familiar scent suddenly filled his nose, taking him by surprise. It was a familiar cologne that no one made anymore, peppermint candles and a log fire... there was a snap as a piece of wood split in the unseen flames somewhere to his right, shocking him into opening his eyes.

He gasped. Aziraphale was beside him, stood in a room he hadn't seen since he was a boy. The fire crackled beneath the moulded plaster of the mantelpiece, set against a Victorian wallpaper which was half-obscured by bookshelves. One enormous armchair sat before the fire. An ageing man sat in it, with neatly combed salt-and-pepper hair, a pair of old-fashioned reading glasses and a tartan blanket draped over his lap. He was a little younger than he'd been when he died, but Wilson would never forget that face.

"Grandad," he said, his voice thin and shaking. He took a step forward, only for Aziraphale to grip his arm.

"He can't hear you, I'm afraid," he explained quietly, pity in his eyes. "We're only peering through the keyhole, so to speak. We aren't really here."

He set his jaw, looking back at his grandfather. He was so at peace, so calm, while the fire played off the wrinkles in his face. "Does... does he know?" he said unsteadily, unable to look away. "That he's dead?"

"He does," he said, his blue eyes tracing the unfamiliar details of the room. The love here was so gentle, so calming, so tireless... He didn't have to be here to feel it. It was unmistakable. 

Wilson grabbed a fistful of his hair, letting out half a laugh of disbelief. His grandfather, oblivious, sipped from the mug of cocoa he'd been nursing. "But - but he's - " he said, disorientated by the sight. "He's here. In this room, with grey hair, even in Heaven. Shouldn't he be in his prime again? Off living his wildest dreams?"

Aziraphale placed a steadying hand on his arm. "Sometimes, even Heaven can't do better than a soul's memories of earth," he said, gesturing at the room around them. Wilson frowned at him, still uncomprehending. "He is exactly where he wants to be."

Finally, Wilson's grandfather turned around, looking toward the far corner of the room by the bookshelf. "Have you found it yet, dear?" he called, and Wilson's heart cracked in two when he heard that prim English accent. He squinted into the shadows, looking for who he was talking to.

"Yeah!" replied a small voice. There was a shuffle, and a young boy came scurrying toward the armchair with a book in his hands. Wilson's jaw dropped. 

"There's a good lad, James," his grandfather said, pulling the young Wilson onto his lap with a grunt of effort. He adjusted his glasses, looking at the book he'd been presented with. "Hm, let's see here... _A Case Of Identity_ , by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle... another Sherlock Holmes story, eh?"

The boy nodded enthusiastically, grinning. "I like the puzzles," he replied. "Weren't you a detective once, grandpa? Like Sherlock Holmes?"

Wilson - the real one - clasped a hand over his mouth in sudden shock. "I remember this..." he whispered in disbelief, a sheen of tears forming over his eyes. He reached out, gripping tightly onto the angel beside him and breathing deeply from the scents of his childhood as a very distinct memory played out before him.

His grandfather chuckled. "Not quite. I was only a police officer. Detective work was a bit too complicated for poor old me," he said, holding him close and rubbing his arm gently. Little James made a discontented noise, making his grandfather raise a brow. "Is something the matter, dear?"

"Well - if you can't be a detective, I'll never be able to do it either," he said, crossing his arms with a pout. Wilson tightened his grip on Aziraphale's arm, thankful when the angel placed his own hand gently over the top. He needed the contact. 

"Whoever told you that?" his grandfather asked, stroking his hair. The fire crackled on, sowing the seeds of a memory that would be reawakened every time Wilson would hear a fire from that day on. "You could be the most brilliant detective of them all, if you wanted to be, you know."

Little James tilted his head sceptically. "Really?"

"Really really," he said confidently, waving the book under his nose. "Just like our friend the consulting detective here. Just work hard, and don't you forget who you are. You do that, and you'll make this old man very proud one day."

"You think so?" he said with the beginnings of a smile.

"I know so," he replied, flipping open the book on his lap. Then, he added another few words, ones that Wilson had no memory of him saying in the armchair, when they'd had this conversation all those years ago: "You made me so proud, my dear boy, before..."

"Before what, grandad?" Wilson's younger self asked in confusion, as if surprised to be pulled away from the script of the real memory. 

He shook his head with a bittersweet smile. "Before I had to leave you," he said, his peaceful voice finally beginning to shake, the first hint of grief shining through the Heavenly veneer around him. He brushed his fingers over his grandson's face, already knowing what he would grow to look like. "You were everything I hoped you'd be, my boy."

Wilson felt tears begin to spill, uncontrolled and warm, down his cheeks. His knees began to buckle, though Aziraphale gripped him tightly, supporting his weight. "I know. I know, dear boy," the angel murmured softly, painfully aware of how much he sounded like the man in the armchair. "Even the dead mourn the living ones they left behind."

Wilson sobbed, the air dragging like sandpaper in his throat, unable to rip his eyes from the memory. His grandfather, still unaware, had opened the book and begun to read aloud to the boy cradled against his chest. His elderly voice was still raw with emotion. "My dear fellow, said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either side of the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street; life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare conceive of the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence..."

As Wilson stared desperately at the scene, trying to save every detail of a memory he already had, the world began to fade. His grandfather's voice began to get lost in the oncoming wave of silence, his words trailing off though his mouth continued to move. The colours dulled like an old photograph, becoming still and motionless until the image fractured and tore at the seams. In an instant, Wilson found himself back in the bookshop, his hands shaking and face still streaked with tears. Aziraphale's hands still clasped over his own. 

Wilson raised his eyes, meeting the pale blue gaze staring across at him, overflowing with pity and concern. The detective swallowed hard, and took his hands back. He wiped the tears from his cheeks, and proffered him a strained smile. 

"I am sorry," Aziraphale said, seeing the frailty in his courage. "We couldn't stay much longer, not without drawing undue attention..."

"It's okay," he said hoarsely, twisting around the ring on his index finger. "That... that still meant a lot, for me."

He smiled patiently. "I hope it brought you some peace," he said. Judging by the very carefully measured tone of his voice, it looked as if the angel had been affected by the whole experience, too. He glanced at the clock, seeing that over an hour had passed since they first entered their trance. Crowley had wandered off somewhere else in the shop, possibly in search of a place to take a nap. "Will you be needing a lift home?"

"No, I'll... I'll walk," he said, going to stand, though he wobbled uneasily on his feet. Aziraphale tensed up, ready to catch him. Wilson collapsed back down onto the chair. "Or maybe I'll just... sit down for a bit longer."

"Good idea," he said in relief, reaching for the teapot on the table between them. "More tea?"

"Please."

Laura hurried to the door as soon as she heard the Bentley outside. She wrenched it open, feeling oddly light with the excitement of the day. The gurgling engine cut out, and Crowley was the first to clamber out into the sunshine. It had been forecast rain for that day, but the grey clouds had known better to pause above that particular quarter of London. If she hadn't known any better, she'd have said Mr Fell could have engineered that, too. 

To her surprise, James also stepped out of the Bentley. Her eyebrows shot up. He made his way up the garden path by Aziraphale's side, chatting amiably until they were within earshot of the house. "Carpooling today?" she asked, bemused.

"My flat's on the way from the bookshop. It made sense," James replied airily, his hands in his pockets, and his posture finally slouched and relaxed like usual. Laura cast a critical eye over him: no more dark patches under his eyes, no more untended stubble on his face, no more suspicious side-glances toward Fell.

"Right. You look good, by the way. Finally getting some sleep again?" she said, crossing her arms.

He rolled his eyes, giving Crowley a conspiratorial nudge. "Look at this. She's adopted a child, and suddenly she's everyone's mother."

"She was always your mum, mate," he shot back dryly, making him huff indignantly. 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "Now now, children," he said chidingly, then turned toward Laura again. "Shall we go inside?"

The Carlton household had never seemed so bright. Everything was sparkling clean, and every sharp corner and door handle already had a padded cap covering it. A bright green toy chest had already found its home in the corner of the living room, ready for the years to come. Clara reclined on the sofa, cradling a tiny bundle of blankets in her arms. She was utterly enthralled. A small, pudgy hand reached up from the bundle, grasping at a strand of her hair, making her grin stretch even wider than before. 

"Sorry, honey. The three wise men are here already," Laura joked as she came inside, settling beside her wife.

Clara looked up with an unabashed smile. "Wise?" she said, arching a brow. 

Crowley gave a false stutter of offence. "Fine, we see how it is. We'll just take our gold, frankincense and myrrh elsewhere, then," he said, turning to pretend to leave in a huff. Aziraphale caught his arm with a tut and and eye-roll. 

"Won't you introduce us, Clara?" Aziraphale asked, coming closer to see the baby. 

"All right," she said, adjusting her position so the baby's bright green eyes could see the three newcomers to the house. "Meet your uncles, sweetie. This is Uncle Zi, Uncle James and Uncle Strange Sunglasses Man."

Crowley arched a brow. "You just wait. That kid's going to get a pair of sunglasses on their birthday and you can't stop me."

Laura shook her head in exasperation. "You two can't stop bantering for more than five minutes, can you?" she said. Clara and Crowley both shook their heads in unison. 

"We still don't know the kid's name, either," James pointed out, sitting on the opposite sofa. 

"It's Damien," Laura replied proudly. Aziraphale blanched slightly, though no one saw but Crowley, who gave him a smug side-glance. "Damien James Carlton."

James gave a start. "Uh - James, as in - ?"

"As in James Bond," she deadpanned. "Yes, James as in you, you idiot."

His jaw hung open slightly. Just the day before, he'd seen his grandfather again, his namesake. The name had been passed to him, and now it had been passed on again to another generation. He sniffled slightly. "Wow," he said dumbly. 

"Do you need a moment?" Laura asked, knowing how touchy he could be about crying in public. 

"Uh - maybe, yeah," he said, clearing his throat and getting to his feet. "I'll be right back, promise."

He fled out the back door, into the garden. It was beautiful, for a London home. It was a long, narrow lawn, fenced-in by a trellis overflowing with vines that bloomed purple and white in summer. He sunk down onto the rocking chair on the patio. A cool breeze ruffled his hair, balancing the heat of the sun. He rested his fist against his temple, thinking about the games Damien would play here, when he was old enough to run and jump and laugh... He'd be there, too. He'd be there to pick him up again when he fell, and look after him if he scraped his knee. Maybe he'd even read to him, with the same old books he used to love as a boy. Uncle James, the one he'd been named after... He chuckled slightly, wiping the dampness from his eyes. He had no idea he meant so much to Laura. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket. With a frown, he took it out. "Ah, shit," he muttered, glancing nervously over his shoulder. He'd forgotten about the Murphys, amidst all the excitement and heartbreak. He couldn't ignore her again. He answered the call. "Morgan, hey."

"James!" she shrieked, making him flinch away from the receiver. "Where in God's name have ya been? Why didn't you answer my calls?"

"I'm sorry, really," he said desperately. "I - I was at Fell's."

"Shit. Shit, James, I'm so sorry, what did he - ?"

"Nothing," he interrupted. There was a baffled silence. "I promise, Morgan. He didn't do anything. He was just checking up on me, and - and he actually helped me out with a couple of things."

"In exchange for what?" she said cautiously.

He paused. Saying 'nothing' wasn't going to fly, he knew that. "He just wants us to mind our business, okay? No more poking around, no more gossiping," he said finally. "And the baby's safe, by the way. No changelings."

"Oh. Right..." she said. She seemed slightly at a loss, with nothing to raise her hackles at. She coughed awkwardly. "So, that's that, then. You won't be needin' us anymore, if you've really got everythin' smoothed over."

His brow furrowed. "What are on about?" he said. The thought hadn't occurred to him. 

"Don't give me that," she snapped. "You needed us. Now ya don't. So, this'll be goodbye, won't it?"

"That's not how friendships work, Morgan," he said incredulously, with a hint of teasing in his voice. He didn't miss the small intake of breath she took. "You're stuck with me now."

She hummed, pretending to consider it. "Hmph. Fine," she said defensively. "You'd better get to know us then. How's Saturday?"

"I'm free then," he said, a broad smile creeping onto his face.

"Good." She paused again, picking her next words carefully. "Clyde might not come with us. He thinks my favourite pub's shit."

"His loss," he replied quickly, picking up on the subtext beneath her prickly exterior. "So... it's a date, then."

"Don't get ahead of yourself," she said sharply, though there was no venom in her words. She hesitated again, dropping her guard ever-so-slightly, letting a ray of honesty shine through. "Just... friendship first, all right?"

He nodded patiently, even if she couldn't see. "Course. There's no rush," he said reassuringly. 

"Thanks," she said, uncertainty permeating her voice again. "Look, I should... I should go let Clyde know that we're out of the woods. Take care, won't ya, James?"

"Yes ma'am," he quipped. He heard her give an amused scoff before she hung up. 

He tucked his phone back into his pocket, a smile lingering on the edge of his lips. Aziraphale had hoped that a fresh start would be good for her... James was inclined to believe him. With a final glance at the garden, he got up and headed back into the house with yet another weight lifted off his shoulders. 

He paused by the doorframe, seeing Damien cradled in Aziraphale's arms on the sofa, while Crowley peered over his shoulder. "Oh, he's such a darling," the angel cooed. "I could just steal him."

James gave a wry smile, and didn't comment. Once, that would have frightened the hell out of him. 

"Hey, get your own, Zi," Clara laughed softly, leaning on Laura's shoulder. "You never know, maybe if you ask Anthony really nicely..."

Aziraphale immediately looked at Crowley with a wide-eyed puppydog stare. The demon gave a start of surprise. "Uh - w - bu - er - " he stammered helplessly, floundering. He immediately recalled James' words at the pub; human babies _did_ make Aziraphale broody!

"Leave the poor man alone, you two," Laura cut in sympathetically. "Honestly, you're like a pair of harpies. You can't just spring that on him from nowhere."

Aziraphale hummed in assent. "Yes, I suppose you're right," he admitted with an apologetic glance at his husband. "Sorry, dear. I just got a little carried away."

"Let's stick to being godfathers first, angel," he said, relaxing slightly and resting his chin on his shoulder. 

"Agreed," he said, rocking Damien gently. 

Finally, James cleared his throat, and stepped fully into the room. "So, am I going to get to hold my godson yet, or..?"

"Hey, wait your turn," Crowley said stubbornly, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale defensively. "I'm next."

"Whatever, Uncle Strange Sunglasses Man," he shot back, throwing himself down on the other sofa beside Laura. 

"Says the guy whose middle name is _Mingus_ ," he said. Clara immediately snorted in laughter, which she tried to hide behind a cough. Laura smirked, handling the revelation with slightly more grace. 

James gasped, suddenly turning bright red. "How did you know that?"

Crowley just grinned, tapping his nose while Aziraphale rolled his eyes. Laura looked between the three of them with amused exasperation. "God, what have we gotten ourselves into...?" she asked Clara.

She chuckled. "A very interesting family, that's what."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to AceMoppet for suggesting the name Damien, and giving the ineffable husbands their third Antichrist-adjacent godson! Can I hear a wahoo?
> 
> Now, I’ve said this before, but I do mean it this time. I don’t think I’ll be coming back to these stories anytime soon. I won’t say never, I’ll just say not soon. I have other things to work on now, and I’m even thinking of starting a whole new series (separate from the outsider POVs) of stories about Crowley and Aziraphale meeting at different points in history and all the ensuing fluff and shenanigans. So, look out for the that in the hopefully not-too-distant future. 
> 
> Until next time, thank you all, and I love you all so much! Your kind comments make writing an absolute joy <3


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